


Feelings and Other Atrocities

by tarie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-01
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-17 12:52:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/551772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarie/pseuds/tarie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the War and a series of unfortunate events, Draco Malfoy finds himself employed in the worst office imaginable at the Ministry of Magic. He hates his job, he hates his superior (Ron), and he rather hates everything except sex, himself, and his own needs. He only feels alive when being selfish and shallow, and he quite likes it that way; the last thing he wants to be known as is someone who has feelings and other atrocities. Right?  (Ron/Draco, Draco/Anything That Moves and Has Bits, mentions of past Ron/Hermione)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Written for reversathon 2006.

Sweat glistens on his shoulder blades, rivulets trickling down the slopes to pool in the dip between them. A twist of hips, a thrust, and the length of his torso jerks forward, the motion sending the shallow gathering of _sweatheat_ rolling down along the spine. It looks oh-so-inviting, and Draco has never been one to pass up an invitation such as this. Lips _curvingtwisting_ with devilish delight, Draco lowers his head to lave up his prize and he is rewarded with a keening moan that amuses. Laughing, his hands slide up over expanse of hot flesh to wind in hair dark and messy and _yes_.

"Harder," Nigel pants. 

"No." As if Draco would _take requests_. If anyone should be taking requests, it is the bloke with the cock up his arse.

Though a familiar tightening sensation begins to coil in his stomach, Draco slows down his ministrations, softening them almost. Inhaling deeply, he withdraws a few centimetres at a time, nails raking down either side of Nigel's spine.

"P-please." Nigel's voice is heady with want, though it isn't heady enough for Draco's liking. 

"Please what?" His tone is cool, detached, and not even the desperate clenching of muscles against the head of his cock as it lingers in Nigel disturb him. 

"I want you. I want you inside me," Nigel gasps, and the raw roughness in his words is enough for Draco to relent.

"Roll over." Pulling out, he scoots back to watch Nigel flip onto his back. The fellow is a pleasing sight; pale skin flushed all over (even in places Draco has yet to claim), thighs spread for him. Nigel watches Draco through heavy-lidded eyes, biting his lower lip in a way that reminds Draco of an innocent lamb awaiting slaughter, and he is more than willing to act the wolf.

"Spread yourself."

It amuses him how quickly Nigel complies, drawing his knees up to his chest and pushing them out, putting himself on display. Draco likes to look at window dressings.

"Now prepare yourself." Oh, Draco had done that already, but what does that matter? It is a thing of beauty, the way Nigel writhes and trembles and sighs. "More."

He uses more fingers now, and Draco licks his lips as tips, knuckles, and then whole digits disappear, as his wrist begins to rotate. "Oh-oh-OH–"

The springs groan as Draco shifts, sliding a hand under Nigel's arse, elevating him. "Don't stop," Draco murmurs, his cock sliding under fingers and into velvety, greedy _heat_.

" _CHRIST_ ," Nigel chokes, and by God and Merlin the pressure around Draco's cock is needy and hot and aches so, so good.

"Fuck." Draco groans, propelling himself forward so his cock stabs inside Nigel's tight hole, Nigel's fingers twisting atop his cock as it moves _inoutinoutin_ out– " _Nigel_ –"

"Nathan."

Draco speaks with his lips pressed against Nigel's nipple, hips pistoning all the while. Nathan's. _Nathan's_. "That's what I said."

Hands push at his shoulders, and Draco lifts his head up, scowl already in place. All this talk is doing is dampening his libido, which was more than fine only moments ago. It is most vexing, and he is inclined to threaten to hex him. Barely slowing down his pace, Draco flings one arm out to retrieve his wand. Fingers clench around the hilt as his other hand grips Nigel's hip. 

"No it isn't. You said Nigel. My name is _Nathan_."

Well, _really_. The way Nathan looks at him, you'd think Draco just killed his puppy.

"I got the 'N'." That is an accomplishment in itself. So many people to shag, so little time to do insignificant things like catch a proper name.

"But you–"

"You have a Malfoy cock up your arse. Not many have been in your position before, so I suggest you shut your trap and enjoy it, N." Even if N doesn't shut his gob about it, Draco will enjoy it. What he doesn't do for some people. Really, he's practically a bloody Gryffindor.

N's face scrunches up in a somewhat unattractive manner as he considers this. Fortunately for Draco's eyesight, the consideration doesn't last for long. "I _am_ enjoying it," N says quietly.

"Of course you are," Draco says impatiently, and then thwaps N's cock with his wand. A slow smile curves his mouth as N groans and his muscles flex around Draco. "That's it."

_Thwap_! _Thwap_! _Thwap_!

With each strike of his wand, N's muscles convulse around Draco, and his cock begins to throb.

"Christing– Merlin– Circe–"

Out of seemingly nowhere, a cool, annoying female voice speaks. "This is the Department of Wizarding Affairs. Draco Abraxas Malfoy, Department of Magical Law–"

Damn, Draco thinks, gritting his teeth, his wand a hairs-breadth away from thwapping N's cock again. The red Ministry fellytone is annoying and has no sense of timing. In fact, it's affecting _his_ timing, and that simply will not do. One hand grabs at N, pinning his wrists above his head while Draco angles the other at the stupid Ministry Muggle-like device on the nightstand. Pressure building up at a dizzying rate, he cants his hips forward hard, grunting a hex or two.

"–Enforcement," the cool female voice continues. "Employee, please cease and desist all vandalism, mayhem, and destruction of property belonging to Ministry of Magic. Any damage inflicted can and will be taken from personal Gringotts vaults now and in–"

"Cease and desist Nigel's _arse_ ," Draco glowers, blue sparks erupting from the tip of his wand as he spills inside Nigel, his cock spurting and his body convulsing.

"Nathan!"

"Whatever."

"–The time is now ten-oh-five. Total tardies: eleven. Penalty phase, as per Department Head, begins now. Demotion and loss of pay to be implemented in ten minutes if employee does not report to the Ministry immediately."

Draco doesn't think he can sink any lower at the Ministry than he already has, but the hag bellowing out of the speekher on the fellytone sounds rather serious. If he isn't careful, he could be licking floors in the loos, a job only befitting a half-witted former Hufflepuff.

"Nimrah. Out." To the fellytone, he adds, "I'm on my way." Mercifully, it stops threatening him.

"Nath–"

"You say Levio-SAH, I say Levi-OH-sa. OUT." Rolling out of bed, Draco begins waving his wand about, Summoning work robes while pulling his trousers on. 

A few green sparks and a puff of smoke later, Draco is left alone with his work robes and a sour mood. No doubt his mood will worsen when he gets to the Ministry. Breathing the same air as the Weasel would have that affect on any sane man.

*****

Brushing a bit of ash from his shoulders, Draco steps out of the fireplace and heads down the hall toward the garish fountain. He can barely hear the splashhiss of falling water for all the noises from Apparators and witches and wizards falling into step beside him, noses buried in reports or _Daily Prophet_ s as they head to the golden gates.

"Good morning, Draco," calls the badly-shorn wizard at the desk labelled _Security_ , his peacock blue robes and garish purple mantle an assault on Draco's senses.

"What's so good about it?" Draco demands, pausing near the desk.

The bloke's face goes blank for a moment. "Nothing," he says finally, sounding unsurprised to reach such a conclusion.

"Precisely. And it's Mister Malfoy. Perhaps when you've learned the art of colour co-ordination you may call me Draco." Which will be never.

Whitcombe from Ludicrous Patents jostles Draco just then as he passes, and Draco falls into step behind him, contemplating hexing his trousers off in retaliation. Unfortunately, Whitcombe doesn't get on the same lift, so his plans are, for the moment, spoiled. Pity. Draco will have to catch him some other time.

Standing with his back against the wall, Draco defiantly glares at those who dare to look at him. The lift ascends so slowly Draco is sure half the witches in the confined space will have grey hairs by the time they reach their floor. Chains rattle above the lift, and the same hag from the fellytone begins announcing the floors as they approach. 

"Level Seven, Department of Magical Games and Sports, incorporating the British and Irish Quidditch League Headquarters, Official Gobstones Club and Ludicrous Patents Office."

The lift doors open, and the two closest wizards to Draco, both wrestling misshapen Bludgers that closely resemble overgrown potatoes against their chests, stumble out and teeter down the narrow corridor, several paper aeroplanes swooping out behind them. The doors close again, Draco tunes the hag out, watching disinterestedly as witches and wizards shuffle on and off the lift at each level. More paper aeroplanes, _Ministry of Magic_ stamps gleaming on their wings, zoom in and out of the lift, circling just below the hanging lamp. The lamp's light flickers as the memos move in seemingly endless circles, and Draco's head begins to pound from the _bright dim bright dim bright dim_ pattern. Irate, he brandishes his wand and momentarily Freezes them.

"Leave off. It isn't like I've bought out Honeydukes," Draco snaps when a chubby witch in chartreuse robes raises a brow and jiggles a few chins in his direction.

Her enormous jaw gapes open, but Draco doesn't have to look too long on her as the doors creak open at Level Three. She waddles off the lift, followed by a good number of memos. "Level Three, Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, including the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad, Obliviator Headquarters and Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee."

"There goes a Magical Accident and Catastrophe if I've ever seen one," Draco mutters, moving to the front of the lift as it lurches upward and the chartreuse-clad witch disappears from view.

The few remaining memo aeroplanes flutter in and out of the lamplight, and Draco pinches the bridge of his nose as the doors open and the hag blathers on again. "Level Two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters and Wizengamot Administration Services."

Brushing past a rail-thin wizard named Rob or Bob or Slob, Draco strolls down the corridor, stopping once or twice to take a look at the dark skies and torrential downpour out the enchanted windows. Maintenance must have their knickers in a twist again about a raise or something, and Draco wishes they would take their doom and gloom and shove it up their arses. Working at the Ministry is shit enough as it is; the hurricanes do nothing to improve his work morale. 

With each turn down another corridor, the worse Draco's surroundings get. The floors grow grimier and the light dimmer as he nears the last turn. With a sound between a resigned sigh and an exasperated grunt, he rounds the corner and reaches the dead end. To his left is the broom cupboard and to his right is _the_ door. A small tarnished brass plaque on it reads:

_Misuse of Muggle Artefacts  
Weasley, Ronald B, Head  
Malfoy, Draco A_

Ruing his fate for the 137th time that he not only has to work at the Ministry but in _this_ department and under a Weasley, Draco pushes the door open and immediately curses. The bangs into his desk whenever he opens the door, and now files are flying everywhere.

"Brilliant," he mutters, slamming the door behind him. He can hear it bounce violently against the frame, which probably means the lock didn't catch and the door remains partially open, but he doesn't turn round to take care of it. The scene before him is much more enticing.

"'m telling you that I'm _getting_ to it, Hermione! Give a bloke some time to get the proper forms to Gringotts, won't you? Is it my fault they had a ruddy client Portkey in an _Erumpent_ and the thing went mad? It completely mucked up the place! I told you there were ledgers and paperwork everywhere!" 

"Cheerio, Weaselby." Shrugging his travelling cloak off, Draco plops into his chair, propping his feet up on his desk.

Weasley doesn't take notice of him; he's too busy crouched over his desk bellowing into a Topside Talking Tinder. Sitting up a bit, Draco can just make out Granger's face in the thin blue flames and he chuckles to himself. "Ah, young love. How fleeting it is. Was. Is no more."

"Shut up!" Two sets of voices rise together and Draco chortles, then waves his wand aimlessly about. Files lift off the ground and stack as they had been on his desk. This isn't as interesting as the discussion going on across the office, however, so Draco focusses his attention on the Plight of Weaselby and the Former Weasletteby. Weaselbyette? Whatever.

"No, of _course_ that wasn't your fault, Ron. All I'm saying is you've got to be more responsible. You should have had the replacement files there at–"

Weasley must have heard the chortling, because he fixes Draco with an ugly glare. "D'you mind?"

Uh-oh. Weasley looks put out. 

"Actually-" Draco leant forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. "-I don't. Carry on."

"Ron!"

Muttering some very naughty things that would've made his mum's head spin about had she heard them, Weasley swings his head toward the blue flames, and Draco smirks. This is more entertaining than listening to Falcons matches on the Wireless. 

"Yeah?"

"Don't forget Harry's coming round later, and we're to meet him after work so you two can have your pint and we can catch up, and do bring that paperwo–"

Holding up a hand toward the Topside Talking Tinder, Weasley says, "Hang on a tick, Hermione. _Malfoy_ just traipsed in. Two hours late." Draco can see Granger roll her eyes, and he's tempted to pull a face back at her, but Weasley starts in on him before he can do anything. "You know, Malfoy," Weasley says, pushing the Topside Talking Tinder toward the back of his desk, next to a nipping nutcracker and pair of chopsticks tapping out a rhythm. "You could've showed up for work on time for once instead of leaving me to do the Barrow Burn raid myself!"

Draco can still make out Granger's face in the blue flames, and he gestures toward her with the tip of his wand.

Following Draco's meaning, Weasley taps the side of the Topside Talking Tinder three times with his wand. "Catch you later, Hermione." Mouth scrunching to the side, he adds "Sorry" as the flames begin to flicker. Then they flare blue-white as her face disappears, and return to their normal light blue colour.  
"Thanks a lot, Weasley. Just when it was getting interesting...." 

Weasley's jaw clenches; Draco can see it and he tips his chair back further, pleased with himself. 

"Whether you like it or not, you _are_ a part of this office, Malfoy," he says hotly. "And I don't appreciate having to confiscate five dozen flame-spewing kettles all by my lonesome."

Not bothering to conceal a yawn, Draco decides the best way to occupy his time is to resume working on his chair-spinning prowess; he's got a bet with Piano in Department of Mysteries that he can spin longer than Piano's entire department put together. The competition is fast approaching, and he needs to train. A steak tartare dinner at the finest establishment in wizarding Paris is riding on it. Seeing as how Draco can't afford to purchase one steak tartare dinner let alone _eight_ , he needs to be sure he _will_ win when the day comes. Narrowing his eyes in concentration, he counts to three and then pushes off from the desk, the momentum giving him quite a bit of force in his spin. The room whirls before him faster and faster, and he can almost taste the steak tartare on his tongue–

"–can't believe this is my ruddy life, working in this shite cupboard with a dirty, stinking Death Eater–"

_Death Eater_.

The words cut right through the dizzygiddyhaze of the spin-spin-spinning, and Draco slams his feet against the ground, forcing himself to come to a stop.

Yes, his mood has definitely soured since coming into work, and it's all Weasel's fault.

Shifting the slightest of degrees, Draco uses the tip of his wand to fling the only personal item he keeps on his desk toward Weasley: a framed _Daily Prophet_ article. He knows it by rote:

>   
> **MALFOY PARDONED, BOY WHO LIVED SHOWS SUPPORT**  
>  Draco Malfoy, confirmed former Death Eater, has been pardoned of all charges. The Wizengamot’s decision was announced by newly-appointed Chief Warlock Differendius Diggle yesterday.
> 
> "Harry Potter, he's the Boy Who Lived and the Boy Who Won, you know! Harry Potter testified on behalf of young Malfoy, and of _course_ we had to do as he asked. Like the Wizarding World would forgive us for going against their hero's wishes," one aggravated Wizengamot member who wished to remain anonymous later said.
> 
> Another provided a different perspective. "Potter's testimony was compelling and irrefutable. Both he and Malfoy underwent Veritaserum questioning and proved the validity of Potter's statement. Malfoy directed Potter to the final Horcrux, thereby enabling Potter to defeat You-Know-Who. That goes to show that a Slytherin really can shed its skin," said another anonymous Wizengamot member.
> 
> Despite his pardon, Malfoy's family assets remain frozen and he is not eligible for War Hero Funds. A spokesman for the Minster for Magic revealed that Malfoy will be offered a prestigious job at the Ministry of (ctd page 6, column 4 ½)  
> 

"Malfoy Pardoned, Boy Who Lived Shows Sup–"

"Save it, Malfoy." 

Draco flinches as the frame hits him squarely in the chest, and rage boils over him like ten dozen of those kettles Weasley confiscated that morning. "Get fucked, Weasel," he sneers, carefully setting the frame on his desk. When Draco raises his eyes, Weasley averts his own. 

He waits and waits and waits, but Weasley doesn't toss an insult back. Instead, he buries his head in his in tray, the occasional grunt and tsk floating over to Draco's side of the office.

Weasley rendered speechless. My, my. The day certainly is beginning to look up....


	2. Chapter 2

The day certainly is beginning to look up. While Draco had been cross to have binned another round with Nigel in favor of coming to work and not getting demoted, rendering Weaselby speechless does wonders to improve his mood. The best part of the whole thing is that Draco has hardly to do _anything_. Either terrorizing Weasley has become easier and easier as time goes by, or Weasley's mind is somewhere else.

As Draco's eyes lay on the Topside Talking Tinder on the corner of Weasley's desk, he decides that the latter must be today's winner. Granger _had_ seemed terribly insistent about something, though Draco didn't see how that was different from any other day in her life. Whatever it was she'd been on Weasley's case about, he wasn't thrilled. Judging by the way Weasley's mumbling to himself and grunting and tsking and making all manner of annoying noises, he still _isn't_ thrilled. This is all fine by Draco, as when Weasley is miserable on account of something that is not directly Work (ie, Draco)-Related, he hasn't the inclination to climb on Draco's back like the fuck-all monkey he is.

Damn, Weasley must really need to get fucked. That's why he couldn't be bothered to retort to Draco's little jibe.

"It's a beautiful day, isn't it, Weasley?" Draco drawls, not bothering to hide a broad, amused grin as he swivels in his chair.

"I wouldn't know. I'm still seeing spots from staring into the flames of FIVE DOZEN FLAME-SPEWING KETTLES." To punctuate his sentence, Weasley takes to pounding a fist on his desk like some sort of stupid beast.

The frame on Draco's desk teeters from side to side, the corners clicker-clattering as it rocks left-right-left. "I know you haven't any pride in your own possessions, Weasley, but _I_ happen to have pride in mine, so mind you–"

The door, which Draco had left slightly ajar, bursts open, interrupting his Very Important Request. Weasley finally looks up from his in tray as something whistles past his ear and dives so hard into Draco's desk that a few wood shavings hit him in the cheek.

"Damned Urgent inter-office memos." Lip curling in distaste, Draco extracts the paper Peregrine Falcon ( _Ministry of Magic_ stamped in silver on both its wings) from the unseemly divot on his desk and unfolds it.

"What is it?" Weasley demands.

There go Draco's hopes for a boring, uneventful afternoon.

"More flame-spewing kettles and a few airborne biting waffle irons," Draco mumbles, his eyes scanning the messy joined-up writing on the memo.

"Brilliant. I've only just managed to charm off the last of the heat blisters I got this morning."

"Heat blisters?" What he wouldn't give for one of those asinine, childish Skiving Snackbox things Weaselby's brothers sold to schoolchildren right about now. 

"The kettles WERE spewing flames, Malfoy. You'll see. Where's the raid this time?" Weasley pinches the bridge of his long nose and sighs, and Draco silently curses. There he goes again, polluting more of Draco's air in the confines of their cupboard-sized office.

"Tarring Neville."

Pulling dragon hide gloves out of a desk drawer, Weasley starts tapping himself with his wand, Transfiguring his robes into Muggle attire. Of course, it's all dreadfully outdated and homespun, and Draco dies a little on the inside. Damned Potter for his Saving People Thing and his testifying and his securing Draco a Prestigious Job at the Ministry (though if this is prestigious, Draco would hate to see what a Crap Job at the Ministry would consist of). It's all Potter's fault Draco must be seen in public-- _Muggle_ public!–with an argyle-wearing Weasley.

If he's lucky, maybe one of the airborne biting waffle irons will gnaw him to death, putting him out of his misery.

*****

The Norfolk jacket he'd Transfigured out of his travelling cloak looks quite sharp on Draco. He takes pains to walk far behind Weasley as they make their way past an overflowing skip, a few pubs, and some run-down office buildings. Though he is hard pressed to decide what he loathes about his job the most, Draco definitely detests using non-Magical means of transportation while on the job. Unless business would be extremely dangerous or require travel over great distances, Misuse of Muggle Artefact employees are prohibited from Apparating, Flooing, Flying, Portkeying, and otherwise Popping from place to place. It's stupid, really, and wastes valuable time in the workday. If Draco could simply use magic to get from point A to point B, he would free up more than enough time to complete the mountain of paperwork that accrues each day.

Sooner than he would have liked, they arrive at the underground station. The escalator is busy this time of day, and Draco has the misfortune of standing beside Weasley for the descent into the heart of the station. Since the station is one layer above the centre of the Earth, he has the misfortunate for a sadistic and cruel length of time. Around the time Draco considers committing a no-no around Muggles and withdrawing his wand to gouge out his eyes so he no longer has to look upon the knitted nightmare, the ground comes rushing up; they're finally in the station. As Draco and Weasley simultaneously step off the stairs, a girl who appears to be a few years younger crosses in front of them, pausing to get a good look at Weaselby's jumper.

" _Nice_ jumper," she says, and Weaselby beams.

"Clearly you're blind," Draco tells her as politely as he can manage, which isn't much at all, taking hold of Weasley's elbow to drag him to the automatic ticket machines.

"It's a brilliant jumper," Weasley protests, and Draco knows that somewhere the sheep who had shorn the yarn imprisoned in the argyle apocalypse is turning over in his little sheep-like grave. Baa. Baaaad.

"If by 'brilliant' you mean Horrid, Dated, and Offensive, then yes, Weasley, it's a brilliant jumper." Rolling his eyes, Draco pokes Weasley in the chest. "Pay up. You're the one with the petty Muggle funds."

"'Brilliant' as in wicked, actually." Weasley digs a few quid out of his pocket and Draco's nose wrinkles. _Paper_ money. How quaint and common of the Muggles.

Weasley inserts a few bills into the machine, out spits the tickets, and Draco wrenches his out of Weasley's hand. Inspecting it, he announces, "I'll meet you at the stop," and heads to the platform. The more distance between the accursed argyle and himself, the better.

Mercifully, Draco doesn't have to wait long before his train arrives. The doors open, and before stepping inside he pushes himself to the tips of his toes, spotting Weasley's red head among the crowd of Muggles funneling into the door of the next car down. 

The car isn't overly crowded, for which Draco is grateful. At least the Muggles have the decency to afford him with one small courtesy. Sitting carefully on one of the seats (upholstered in a tacky blue befitting a smarmy Ravenclaw, and springy to boot), he avoids returning the kindly smile of the old woman across from him in favour of studying the line map toward the edge of the roof, where the curve to accommodate headspace begins. 

Merlin, but their stop won't be for _ages_ , and in the close quarters of the car it's hotter than the kitchen ovens of Malfoy Manor. _Former_ Malfoy Manor kitchens, a voice in Draco's head pipes up (one that sounds annoyingly like Zabini in a snit), and he promptly tells it to cease and desist.

It does, and Draco passes the time watching people file in and out as the train makes a few stops.

Around the third or fourth stop, things get Interesting.

The doors open, a few Muggles exit as though they're shuffling off this mortal coil, and one Muggle steps into the car.

Even though Draco has been all but stripped of his Good Name (or, at least, the prestige that had once come with Being a Malfoy) and is poorer than a speck of dirt in a Weasley house, he still appreciates the finer things in life. This Muggle is one of those things.

He hasn't a hair out of place, shiny golden halo framing his heart-shaped face. His eyes are a glorious green that remind Draco of Slytherin and fresh grass on the Quidditch Pitch, and his lips... His lips are full and inviting, and Draco licks his own unconsciously. It's been 110 minutes since he'd last put his cock to use, not that he's been counting.

All right, so he's been counting. Many of his former friends (those who aren't dead or incarcerated, that is) don't have time to spare for a social pariah, but there are still quite a few people out there who don't mind, quite a few people who value fitness and physique above all else. Draco loves these people, as they are all too willing to while away their hours worshiping the body of a fine specimen such as himself. He is all too willing, in turn, to allow them to worship him. It's empowering, the feeling he gets knowing people want him, and he thrives on it. Even if they are Muggles.

The moment he locks eyes with this Muggle creature, Draco knows the fellow wants him. He doesn't need Legilimency to validate it, either. The want is plain in the slant of and sparkle in his eyes, in the way the tip of his tongue darts out to wet the corner of his mouth.

He stands against the large line map next to the door, and Draco's eyes flicker to it as he stands, stretching lazily. Draco can feel his gaze follow him, and one corner of Draco's mouth quirks as he brushes past him. Slowly, as though he has all the time in the world, Draco meanders along the length of the train until he reaches the end. There are no other passengers in the car, and he leans against the wall behind the last row of seats. The window shows nothing but grey and white blurs, but he looks out it as though it's incredibly fascinating. 

A light hand on his shoulder draws his attention away from the window, and he (barely) resists the urge to chuckle. That didn't take long at all.

Not bothering to get his name - it wasn't like he'd remember it - Draco leans forward, seizing his mouth, moaning as he pushes his tongue in past the fellow's teeth. His hands slide down Draco's chest and work open the button and zip of his trousers. Tipping his head to the side, Draco drags the tip of his tongue over the smooth ridges of his teeth, gasping against his mouth as his fingers part the flap in Draco's pants to curl around the length of his cock.

"Take it out," Draco says against his ear. He doesn't have to ask twice, which pleases him immensely. Draco hates it when they're slow.

"You're a needy thing, aren't you?" the fellow asks with a throaty laugh, leading Draco's cock out the slit in his pants, pulling it past the placket of the trousers so Draco can see it when he looks down.

"Not as needy as some," he says, pressing his shoulders against the wall. Christ, but it's hot in here. Draco's clothes feel too close as it is; the way his blood is beginning to boil with desire is not helping matters. If this Muggle doesn't service him right now, he's about to become entirely disagreeable.

Reaching for his hand, Draco guides the Muggle's thumb to the head of his cock, rubbing it over the tip. Draco twitches, brushing the pads of his fingers over his knuckles. "Suck it."

"With pleasure," the fellow says with a wicked smile, giving Draco a naughty wink that makes him smirk as his tongue darts out to lick the head of Draco's cock. A pointed forward push of the hips is all it takes to get him to swallow Draco to the root. Winding his fingers in the fellow's hair, Draco yanks hard, and he begins to work the underside of his cock with his tongue, one of his hands squeezing and rolling and pinching Draco's sac.

"Fuck yes," Draco gasps, fingers tightening in his hair, hips bucking with abandon and–

"Malfoy!"

Shit, just the thing Draco _doesn't_ want to hear when a fellow's got his lips wrapped round Draco's cock and he's having it off: the voice of a Weasley.

His companion falls back gracelessly on his arse, and Draco doesn't bother to tuck himself in as Weasley glowers at him. 

"I should have KNOWN you binned me to pull," Weasley grinds out, and the fellow on the floor climbs to his feet, backing up against a row of seats.

"Oy, this your man?" he asks, and Draco would laugh if he isn't so offended by the implication; Weaselby's eyes round like saucers and his skin goes a touch peaky. 

"No. No! This is my partner!" Weasley blurts.

"That's what I said." The fellow's brow furrows, and Draco steps between him and Weasley, rearranging his own pants and trousers. 

"Business partners. Work associates," Draco explains, and Weasley gets a little less green.

"I'm not gay!" Weasley announces, recovering enough to glare at the fellow. Draco frowns as Weasley begins to haul him away by the forearm.

"You _are_ a huge prat," he complains, glancing down at the noticeable tent in his trousers as they move up the cars. Elbowing Weasley hard in the ribs, he adds in a whisper, "I've not got off yet!"

"Our stop's next," Weasley snaps. 

Draco sighs. No use in trying to get back to the fellow to finish things, then. 

"Stop that!"

"What?"

"That 'I'd Rather Be Shagging' sigh thing you're doing! Why the sodding hell can't you just do your job and do it right for once?" 

"I can do my job and do it right, Weasley. I simply choose _not_ to do so."

"Why _not_?" Weasley demands, and Draco responds by unceremoniously shoving him out the door when the train stops. It's easier to do that than it would be to explain to Weasley that he resents having to work at all, that he resents the Ministry, that he...damn, he doesn't want to think about it.

This is going to be a shit afternoon.

What he wouldn't give for one of the airborne biting waffle irons to _really_ gnaw him to death....


	3. Chapter 3

By the time they get to Tarring Neville (after the thoroughly unsatisfying jaunt on the Tube, a train to Sussex, and a cab ride so slow time nearly stopped), Draco has made two Lardbottom jokes, Weaselby has snapped at him seven times, Draco has tried to alleviate the ache in his cock by rubbing the front of his trousers nine times, and Weasley has spent sixteen pounds on a rickety, dangerous taxi ride that quite possibly has given Draco a slight case of whiplash.

All in all, Draco's mood is lower than low when they finally reach their destination – a car boot sale on the grounds of an old Muggle school. Muggle automobiles are lined up row after row, most of the boots propped open. A few people have tarpaulins and blankets set out with their cheap and disgusting Muggle wares - wireless sets, clocks, plates, books, and the like - on display, bits of paper sellotaped to each item bearing prices that make no sense to Draco - 10p, 35p, 50p, and so on. Near the end of the row closest to the building, a large man stands next to a trestle table, a dazed look on his flushed, grimy face.

"I think I've found our kettles and waffle irons, Weasley." 

Weasley nods and they both pick up the pace, hustling over to the vendor.

"Sir?" Ron asks gently.

The man stares blankly ahead.

" _Sir_?"

"Oh, for the love of– Speaking _louder_ isn't going to do anything!" Draco throws his hands up in exasperation. To the man, he says, "Which way did they go?"

Blinking once, the man lifts a finger and points in the direction of the school building.

"See, that's how it's done, Weasley," Draco says around a smirk. After bidding the Muggle "Ta," they jog toward the school.

The closer they get, the more evident it is they are on the right path; a slight burnt and smoky scent lingers in the air, growing more pungent with each step.

"Blimey," Weasley says behind him, as they walk up to the door, and Draco would be inclined to utter the sentiment as well if it weren't beneath him.

The door is shut or, rather, what is left of it is. In the centre of the door a large section is missing; some of the edges of the oval-shaped hole are splintered, while others are charred and stink of burnt wood.

"Wands out," Weasley murmurs, moving between Draco and the door. After making sure there aren't any Muggles about, Draco nods and brandishes his wand while Weasley does the same. He charms the door open, and Draco follows him into the dim light of the school.

" _Lumos_."

Twin beams of thin light scan the corridor, and they press slowly on. The slightest sound gives them cause to whirl their wand lights about, but so far they've not found a single kettle or waffle iron.

"What makes you think we're even in the right place?" Draco asks as they round another bend.

"The bloke pointed this way, for one thing," Weasley whispered, pausing to peek into a room with an open door. "For another, you _did_ see that door, didn't you?"

"Of course I did," Draco says, speaking slowly so Weaselby could understand. 

Ron's eyes narrow; apparently he does not appreciate his partner's concern for his motor and comprehension skills. 

Draco smiles the smile of the blithely innocent in return, then starts as a loud _CLUNK_ ing noise sounds overhead. "What was that?"

"I think," Ron says grimly, "we're in the right place." Craning his head back, he stares at the criss-crossing rafters. A moment later Ron's wand is pointing upward as well. That's when it hits Draco; they're going to have to fucking _levitate_ themselves up to the beams to deal with these rogue hexed Muggle devices.

"I really hate Potter," Draco announces, then levitates himself toward the rafters so he doesn't have to hear Weasley's undoubtedly stupid response.

Above his head he hears the faint whistle of kettles, followed by metallic clanging noises and the hiss of what Draco knows isn't steam but fire coming out of kettle spouts. Squinting, he can make out how the kettles themselves are flying about; sections from waffle-iron cords are wrapped round and round the kettle handles. The bloody flaming kettles are being towed about by the waffle irons. He is decidedly _not_ doing this by himself. "Get up here, Weasley!"

Weasley must have lead in his arse or something; Draco's managed to freeze a waffle iron and kettle, blast half off another kettle, and send another waffle iron and kettle pair plummeting to the ground by the time Weasley sidles up next to him.

"It's about time. I've nearly gone grey waiting," Draco scowls, then flinches as a stream of flames soars right past his cheek.

"'m here now." Weasley grabs hold of a rafter and uses it to push off, propelling himself toward the rafters over the centre of the room. 

Ducking his head and narrowly avoiding getting a face full of waffle iron, Draco watches as Weasley whirls this way and that in the air, hexing and freezing and obliterating the jinxed Muggle appliances as though it isn't difficult at all, or a bother. Weasley had been a shit Quidditch player, and watching displays such as this one made Draco wonder why that had been. His reflexes are quite good, really. Maybe he'd just had one too many shit captains who never took the time to see his potential before.

Wait, why is he pondering Weasley's ne'er-do-well and currently non-existent Quidditch career?

"OW! SONOFSALAZAR!" Something hits him squarely in the arse, snapping him out of his Definitely Not Thinking About Weasley Thoughts, and it really fucking _stings_. His hand flings out beside him and bumps against something cool and smooth and metal. A waffle iron. His fingers find its handle and Draco whips it round to the front of him. A plug dangles from the back of it, though Draco can't quite reach it as the iron itself is opening and closing and opening and closing loudly and quickly. He barely avoids losing a finger, just pulling his hand back in time. It makes another chomping motion, and Draco grunts in annoyance. This is ridiculous, and he whips his wand out, a hex rolling off his tongue unbidden. The waffle iron stutters, stops, and then spirals as it falls to the ground. Draco has had enough of this work shit himself, and he descends without so much as a word in Weaselby's direction.

Leaning against the one wall that isn't inundated with smoke or charred wood as a result of a cranky kettle, Draco watches Weasley levitating above him. Weasley seems to have everything under control, so Draco doesn't feel a guilty in the slightest for watching him work. Stifling a yawn, he smoothes out the wrinkles on his trousers. The heel of his palm grazes the fabric covering his cock, and he inhales so quickly that air whistles between the gaps in his teeth. The fellow in the Tube didn't get Draco off to his liking (which is to say, not at all), and he is _really_ going to have to take care of the matter later on. 

...Or maybe not.

The click-clicking of heels against stone echo in the corridor, and Draco twists in its direction. There's a twitch in his trousers, and it's all due to the gorgeous woman in stylish robes heading his way.

With flowing black hair and impossibly long legs, the woman does things to Draco's insides that haven't been done since two days prior, or possibly - had N not been a tit about Draco getting his name wrong - this morning.

"Hello there," Draco says smoothly, giving the woman a proper bow in greeting. There's a slight 'oof' beside him as Weasley touches down, and the woman looks from Draco to Weasley and then at the wreckage of waffle irons and kettles on the floor. As Draco straightens, he notices that Weasley's argyle jumper now sports a very large scorch mark in the centre; even flame-breathing kettles have better fashion sense than Weaselby. Draco smiles.

"I see you've everything under control here," she says approvingly. Draco fully approves of the way her tits jiggle when she puts her hands on her hips, and so does his cock. "Nineve Bracegirdle, Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee."

I wouldn't mind bracing your girdle, Draco thinks, but says nothing of the sort. Instead, he smiles broadly and introduces himself. "Draco Malfoy, Misuse of Muggle Artefacts." There is a pointed cough beside him, and he jerks his thumb in Weasley's direction. "This is Ron Weasley, also in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts office."

"I'm the Head," Ron interjects, and Draco's lips form a thin line. 

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, both of you." Bracegirdle steps over the remains of a kettle and peers up toward the rafters. "Mind if I take a look round?"

"No," Draco and Weaselby say at the same time, and Draco scowls again. 

"Go right ahead." Ron gestures round the room, and Draco skulks back, feigning supreme interest in a twisted, smoking waffle iron near his feet.

Stooping down, Draco runs his fingers over the waffle iron, his eyes watching Bracegirdle's every move - every swish of the hips, every wriggle of the arse, he sees it all.

"Stop that," Weasley hisses out the side of his mouth, and Draco jerks his chin up.

"What?" he whispers back, feigning utter and complete innocence. 

"You know full well _what_." Weasley is snappish now, and Draco rolls his eyes, annoyed. "'sides, I thought you were nothing but a bloody shirt-lifter."

Unless it's designer and in the back of his robes, Draco detests labels. "If I have a 'bloody' itch, I'll scratch it with whatever looks best at the time! Right now, Brace-my-girdle looks best!"

"Ahem."

Oh, shit.

"How can we help you?" Draco asks, pouring on the charm as he stands, brushing a lock of white-blond hair out of his eyes. 

Bracegirdle gives Draco a look that likely would make the faint-of-heart's hair stand on end before giving him the cold shoulder and turning to Weasley. "Mister Weasley," she says, "have you contained all of the artefacts?" 

"Er." He rubs at the back of his neck - a sign Draco knows well enough by now means 'I'm bloody uncomfortable and/or I haven't a sodding clue and/or I wish I could Disapparate and/or I need a pint or twelve' - and surveys the area. "Yeah. Yeah, it's contained."

"I trust you'll dispose of any items you won't be returning to the Ministry for analysis?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I can do that."

Bracegirdle smiles, and Draco could swear he sees fangs. "Excellent. Maliphant from Obliviator Headquarters should be here soon. We'll finish conducting interviews and make the appropriate...adjustments. You'll have a report in your in tray before elevenses tomorrow."

"Make that two reports," Draco interjects. Shit, this is his case as well! He steps in front of Weasley, and Bracegirdle turns on her heel, waving a hand over her shoulder as she saunters down the corridor. 

"Good day, Mister Weasley," her voice floats back. Draco doesn't care if it's childish and Hufflepuffian of him; he kicks a kettle against the wall.

"Thanks a tonne, Weasley," he spits, then begins waving his wand about in a flurry of motion. Pieces that are too small to be inspected or tested are Banished, while others are stacked and sent into two rucksacks he'd conjured.

"For what?" Weasley has the audacity to give Draco a curious look while prodding a kettle into a rucksack partition.

The curious look grates on his nerves. As if he doesn't _know_. "Oh, piss off." 

*****

Draco refused to speak to Weasley the entire way back to the Ministry, and he is all too glad (for once) to be back in his - _their_ \- office. Uttering " _Finite_!" to reverse the transfiguration of his robes into Muggle grab, Draco settles into his chair and pulls a mirror out of a desk drawer. 

"You're filthy!" the mirror shrieks when he holds it to his face.

From behind a stack of paperwork (which had piled up something _dreadful_ while they'd been out), Ron snorts.

"Get stuffed, Weasley," Draco says, lips twisting in a sneer. Back the mirror goes in the desk, and Draco begins casting heavy-duty Cleaning Charms on his clothes. They smell like smoke and the Tube and burning metal, and Draco cannot have that uninviting aroma on his person.

Weasley opens his mouth to undoubtedly toss something lame back at Draco, but before he gets out even a peep, an owl comes crashing through the half-open doorway, dropping a red envelope on top of one of the stacks on Weasley's desk.

Grinning, Draco rubs his hands together and prepares to take in the show; this'll be good.

"Oh bloody hell," Weasley grumbles, sinking down in his chair a little.

"You'd best open it, Weasley," Draco advises, threading his fingers together and resting his chin atop them. "The corners are already smoking. You wouldn't want it to explode and screech loud enough for all levels of the Ministry to hear, would you?"

He scowls, then shakes his head. "No...." Stretching out a hand, Weasley slits the red envelope quickly and stuffs his fingers in his ears. A beat, and then the roar of the former Mrs Ronald Weasley's barrister fills their tiny office, the sound shaking everything that isn't spelled down.

"MISTER RONALD BILIUS WEASLEY, YOU ARE HEREBY ORDERED TO FILL OUT THE PROPER FORMS FOR MONTHLY ALIMONY DISPERSEMENT FROM VAULT 665 TO VAULT 1132 TOMORROW MORN. FORMS WILL BE SENT TO YOUR OFFICE PRIOR TO THE HOUR OF ELEVEN, AND THE GOBLIN IN CHARGE OF MRS GRANGER-WEASLEY'S VAULT REQUIRES THE RETURN OF THE FORMS NO LATER THAN HALF-ELEVEN. MRS GRANGER-WEASLEY WOULD ALSO LIKE TO REMIND YOU TO MEET MISTER HARRY POTTER AND HERSELF FOR A PINT THIS EVENING. 'A' AS IN ONE, AS YOU MUST REPORT TO WORK IN THE MORN."

The voice abruptly stops and there is a ringing in Draco's ears. Weasley shoves the Howler to a far corner on his desk, jerking his chair back as it bursts into flames and curls into ashes. Taking a good look at Weasley, Draco notes that he is now purple, a colour that does not go well with his ginger freckles. 

"It could be worse," Draco offers, slapping the top of his desk to illustrate his point. 

"How's that?" The words are practically spat out of Weasley's mouth, and if looks could kill, Weasley would be a basilisk.

"It could've ended with the barrister saying ' _Avada Kedavra_ '?"

Weasley stares at him in silence for a long moment, and then all of a sudden he, too, slaps the table and groans. "Almost wish he would've. Honestly, she's being a total _nightmare_ about all this! Yeah, it was my idea and all, 'cause I insisted she take money that would've been hers had we stayed married anyway, but...sodding hell."

"All women, no matter how noble and honest and just, get like that when money is involved, git," Draco explains, using the tone one would reserve for discussing safety rules with a toddler. 

"You can say that again." Weasley sounds awfully glum, and for a moment Draco almost- _almost!_ \- pities him.

"If you say so." Shrugging, Draco repeats himself. "All women, no matter how noble and honest and just, turn into nightmares when money is involved. Git."

"s'not like she needs it for herself." Slumping further down his chair, Weasley adds, "She's gonna use it for house-elves."

Draco sputters. " _House_ -elves? You can't be serious?" Well, it _is_ Granger they're talking about.... "Yes, I suppose you can, and you are."

"She's working on opening a shelter for displaced and needy house-elves," Weasley mumbles into his fist. "It's kind of her thing."  
After letting this soak in for a moment and reflecting on everything he knows of Weasley and Granger, Draco pulls his chair round near Weasley's side of their office. "Weasley, it's about time you–"

"Leave off, Malfoy."

Draco blinks, fingers curling round the edge of Weasley's desktop. "I beg your pardon?" 

"Don't beg on my account." Weasley stands up, shoving the pile of papers on his desk toward Draco. "Here." He tosses his cloak about his shoulders and works on doing the clasp. "It's past five. I'm going home."

"I'm leaving as well, then." Pushing himself on his chair back to his own desk, Draco stands and reaches for his travelling cloak. 

"Oh no you don't, Malfoy. You skived off two hours this morning; you need to make the time up. Since you missed the Barrow Burn raid this morning, you can do the mountain of paperwork." A tight, thin smile on his lips, Weasley offers him a nod in parting. The door closes softly behind Weasley, and Draco curses, reluctantly scooting the paperwork to his side of the office.

"Paperwork. A fate worse than detention in the forest with Longbottom," Draco mutters to himself, pulling a large scroll from the top of the stack. Dipping a quill in ink, he begins the mindless job of comparing the scroll to Weasley's written statement from that morning, filling in boxes and marking bubbles and generally wasting a whole fat lot of his time. 

Filling out paperwork gets very old very fast, and Draco is itching to leave, himself. The paperwork does need to get completed, however, and after the incident with the Department of Wizarding Affair's employee alert system this morning, he isn't about to chance getting binned for failing to fill out a stupid form.

"Shit." The nub on his quill breaks and, after spelling the blot away, he pulls open a desk drawer to dig for a new quill. 

That's when it hits him; Weasley's got some Working Wonders Quills in his desk. His mad brothers sent a few over the other day, claiming it would 'do your work for you in half the time!' though Weasley had yet to test them out. 

Draco doesn't mind being the product tester, not if it means he can leave straightaway. He has more important things to do than stay after hours to fill in boring Ministry paperwork.

Like pulling.

Smoothing back his hair, he steals a quick glance at the mirror in his desk drawer again. Instead of screeching at him this time, it whistles. "You look devastatingly handsome and fit, dear!"

"Of course I do," Draco murmurs to his reflection. "Pansy, here I come."

She won't stand a chance. She never does.


	4. Chapter 4

Leaning against the mantle in Pansy's Inverness home, Draco crosses one ankle over the other, creating a clean, crisp, inviting line with his frame. She doesn't bother to acknowledge his presence; she's too occupied with preparing her standard post-dinner drink - a Golden Wand. 

He waits until she has replaced the last stopper in its rightful decanter before speaking. "Hello, Pansy."

"Draco," she says with a nod, tilting her head back and gazing lazily up at him. "Have I kept you waiting too long?" Her nails, long and lacquered pink and perfect, tap against the side of her glass as she raises it to him in greeting. He smiles, and she drinks. "Mmmm."

"Good, is it?" He likes the way her lips purse just a fraction when she makes that 'mmmm' sound, and he pushes off the mantle to meet her.

"Yes." There is amusement in her voice, and she turns as he walks round her. "Very good."

"I'm not good," Draco murmurs, stepping behind her, pressing his chest against her back. "I'm not bad, either." Winding a few fingers in her hair, he places his other hand on her belly, holding her to him. Draco inhales the scent of her hair, his nose brushing against her ear. 

"Mmmm. What are you, then?" she asks slyly, and the ice in her glass clinks together.

"Positively wicked," he breathes, tracing the sensitive shell of her ear with his tongue before tugging on the lobe with his teeth, sucking it into his mouth.

"Draco..."

"Hmm?"

"As pleasant as this may be, I do intend on having my drink." Her hand, small and warm, pats the one he has against her belly.

"Of course." Though he is reluctant to let go of her so soon, Draco opens his arms. She turns in them, pressing a kiss to his cheek before stepping back.

"It's good to see you." Sitting delicately in a wingback chair, she crosses her legs and gestures for him to sit in the adjacent seat. "It's been, what now? Two months?"

Though her tone is anything but impolite, Draco knows he is being chastised, as well he should be. Of all his former housemates, Pansy is the only one with whom he's kept up. 

Bulstrode, Nott, and Goyle are dead. Pucey and Flint are in Azkaban. Greengrass and Higgs are nothing but for shells of their former selves; they'd been sentenced to the Kiss after their crimes in the War came to light. Crabbe's whereabouts are unknown; and Zabini, Warrington, Davis, and Montague want nothing to do with him. Of those who are still alive, only Vince means anything to him. If Draco had the means, he would hire someone to seek him out. But Draco does not have the means, so he never thinks on that notion for more than a moment or two.

The lot of them can go hang, save for Pansy. She has always been the one to understand him best of all, and though he is loath to admit dependence on anyone, Draco depends on her. Not just for getting him off or never hesitating to come when he owls in the middle of the night for a random shag, but for strength and stability and brutal honesty. Pansy sees right through him and doesn't mind his transparency, and he does the same for her in kind. 

"One and a half, but who's counting?" Draco smiles a thin smile, one she returns automatically.

"Certainly not me," Pansy says, snuggling back into her chair. She takes a slow sip, one delicate brow arching as she looks on him. Expectantly.

Fine. "I'm a terrible friend." Draco holds his hands out to his sides. 'What would you expect otherwise?' is the unspoken sentiment.

"You are," Pansy nods. As her head falls back, the glass tipping to her lips, Draco watches with keen interest while her slender throat works the drink along. Pansy's skin is flawless, a hint of glow beneath its surface, and his fingers long to touch. It has been some time, and the memory of it crackles through veins and nerves to every last bit of him. "But I won't hold that against you....unless you ask it of me." She winks.

Draco groans, not bothering to disguise the matter as he adjusts the front of his trousers. " _Pansy_."

Holding up her glass, she swirls the contents. The soft amber light from the chandelier overhead glints off the glass. "I've not finished."

With any other woman, Draco would not think twice about whisking the drink out of her hand and pinning her against the wall, but Pansy is unlike other women. She would hex a bollock off without breaking a sweat or blinking if he were to hurry her along before she was ready for things other than what was occupying her at the present. Sighing with exasperation, he drums his fingers on an armrest. Possibly he should engage her in polite conversation. It _has_ been a month and a half and, while he is not keen on filling Pansy in on the ins-and-outs of his daily life, he is well aware Pansy loves to indulge in the spotlight.

"Tell me what you've been doing," he implores, quite proud of himself for addressing the question to her face rather than her tits, which are quite magnificent in the robes she has on at the present.

"Anthony Goldstein."

Well, well. "I asked _what_ , not whom." He shakes his head. "A Ravenclaw, if I recall correctly." Pansy nods. "At least it isn't a Gryffindor."

"Now, Draco. I'd think you've learnt to appreciate them since you've been in close quarters with one for some time," she says lightly, smirking at him over the rim of her glass.

"I appreciate Gryffindors when they leave."

"Oh ho, trouble in paradise? Your little cupboard a bit too cozy?" Pansy laughs, and Draco bristles. He is in no mood for teasing about his crap job.

"Leave off," he says warningly.

"So there _is_ trouble in paradise," she cries triumphantly, hoisting her glass as though she's the toast of the bloody century. Draco scowls, and Pansy laughs, lowering her glass and looking on him with what he figures to be fondness. Calculated fondness, at that. "Really, Draco. You let Weasley get to you too easily. He says the tiniest thing; you fly off the broom handle. And then you dwell on it for days and days!" Scooting forward in her seat, her knees bump against his. "If I didn't know any better, I'd accuse you of fancying him," she says in what Draco knows is her 'I'm a completely innocent angel' voice, and he's not buying it.

"As if I'd waste my time on _that_ when I can have anyone I choose," he says slowly, sliding a hand up her thigh. His mouth twists with disgust for the brief moment he allows himself to think on the possibility of himself with _Weasley_. The moment gone, he focuses on Pansy; his fingers dip below her skirt and move higher still, brushing over the baby-soft skin of her inner thigh. "I choose you, Pansy."

"Don't."

His hand freezes. "Pardon?"

"Not this time," Pansy says quietly, gently removing his hand from under her skirt.

Draco wants to laugh; this is mad. Pansy has never refused him before. Ever. "Because of the Ravenclaw?" he asks lightly, teasingly. Her mouth sets in a thin line in response, and Draco feels as though he's been punched in the stomach. "You're having me on."

"I'm not." 

Feeling pinned by her gaze, Draco looks away, staring at the intricate carving on the mantle.

"I've something quite good with Goldstein, or at least I think so thus far, and I just...he's special, Draco. And besides, you've had more than your fair share of pulls lately as it is." 

God, the way she's going on about her fellow makes him want to vomit. "I get a lot of pulls because I can," he says, shrugging to add what he hopes is a nonchalant air to the statement.

"I don't think that's it at all," she says with a shrewd look in her eyes, and Draco's entire frame tenses. Pansy either doesn't take notice to this or doesn't care (he suspects it is the latter), and continues. "Ever since the Wizengamot pardoned you...hell, ever since the War ended, you've been...you've been insatiable. Dissatisfied. You've been lost."

"Pansy," Draco grounds out, " I advise you to stop _right_ now." Hands clenching into fists, he stands, unable to look in her direction.

"I'm only saying this because I–"

He can't take this one moment longer. Exploding, he pivots wildly toward her, seeing red. "For _once_ in your life, Pansy, mind your own damned business. I'm not your job. I'm not some curse you've to break." 

He has to get out of here. Anywhere will do. Anywhere with a drink.

Immediately everything begins to turn black and Draco feels the familiar sensations of Apparation - the pressure on every bit of his body, the difficulty breathing, his eardrums aching. And then it's over as quickly as it began, and he is now standing before a bar with a cloudy mirror over it. Patrons mingle behind him, and one elderly wizard sidles up to the bar next to him, hailing the barkeep. Draco groans when he sees just who the barkeep is and just where he's Apparated, but it's too late to get away; she's already spotted him.

Never taking her eyes off Draco, Madam Rosmerta deposits mulled mead in front of the wizard standing next to Draco. "There you go, Adelroth." The old man tosses a few sickles on the bar, thanking her, and shuffles away to a table. "Last one for the night. Eight's your limit," she calls after him, gaze still fixed on Draco. He stares down at her defiantly, silently daring her to brandish a wand or dump a mug of Firewhisky over his head.

"You have some nerve showing your face in my pub," she says, her voice sharp.

Not in the mood for this at all, Draco scowls and turns around, surveying the pub. There is a fair amount of business; most of the tables are occupied, and patrons bustle back and forth visiting tables or heading to the bar for a refill. Flames crackle in the fireplace, and he can _just_ hear the crackles and pops above the din of myriad conversations.

"Have the decency to look at me when I'm speaking to you. You owe me that much." 

Perhaps he does. He had used her, turning her against old friends and patrons alike to suit his own needs once. Merlin, it seemed like a lifetime ago, and he felt a vague sense of guilt as he began to turn toward her.

"–ly, Mum would love for you to come round for Bill and Fleur's anniversary! 'M not taking the mickey out of you!"

"Are you _sure_ , Ron? She's been terribly cold ever since things between us have been finalised, and I wouldn't want to impose...."

Shit. Of all the pubs in all the world, he has to Apparate into the one with Weaselby and the former Weaselbyette? Weaseletteby? Whatever.

_"If I didn't know any better, I'd accuse you of fancying him."_

Pansy's earlier words come to mind, and the already-thin tether Draco has on his emotions snaps.

He _doesn't_ fancy Weasley, he _doesn't_ have a problem being 'lost', and he _doesn't_ have to stand for a lowly (if attractive and something of a stiffener) ale wench talking down to him. No matter if he is deserving of her wrath or not.

Whirling around, Draco makes a show out of looking at Madam Rosmerta and meeting her eyes. "Is this better?" he sneers, hand thrusting in an inner pocket of his robes. His fingers curl around the familiar leather hilt, and they positively itch for some action. What he wouldn't give to be able to hex her sparkly shoes and big-breasted self into oblivion. It would be a bit of a shame, as undoubtedly he'd be removing wank material from the lives of ninety percent of her patrons and even Draco can admit she _is_ quite fit, but such things must happen from time to time.

"Not really, as you're still–"

"There you are, Malfoy!"

Draco's shoulders stiffen; it can't be.

"Hello, Harry," Rosmerta murmurs, her demeanor softening. It wouldn't be good for business for her patrons to witness her behaving crass, now would it?

"Potter, I don't–"

"–know if you'll be able to forgive my sorry arse for being so late," Harry interrupts. "I know, and I'm sorry."

Circe, but Potter's rescuing him from the ale wench's clutches? How noble, Gryffindor, and annoying of him. And unwanted.

"Don't–"

"Thanks for keeping him company for me, Madam Rosmerta. C'mon, Malfoy."

Before Draco can so much as protest, Potter has clapped a hand on his shoulder and has dragged him across the pub, practically shoving him at Weasley's table. 

"What did you do that for?" Draco seethes, shooting Potter the nastiest look in his extensive repertoire. "I didn't _ask_ for your help, Perfect Potter, so piss off." 

As expected, Granger pipes up immediately, coming to Potter's defence. "Would you rather he left you to be hexed in front of fifty or so witches and wizards?" 

"Why, Granger, I'm honoured. To think, you're addressing me in person when your own ex-husband merits only a Howler from your barrister instead of actual, meaningful conversation."

"You sent him a Howler?" Potter asks, looking from Granger to Weasley and then to Draco for confirmation.

"She did," Draco says smugly, and Granger mottles red.

"No, she had her _barrister_ send me a Howler," Weasley mumbles into his pint, and Potter snorts.

"My mistake," Draco says smoothly.

Granger huffs. "Honestly, you deserved it, Ron! If you had filled out the paperwork properly when I'd asked, none of this would have happened!"

"Excuse me for needing some time to, I dunno, deal with– deal with–" Weasley sputters, and Draco almost feels sorry for him. Almost.

"Your divorce," Draco supplies helpfully.

"Yeah," he says hollowly, and then an awkward silence, heavy and thick, settles in. Potter pulls up a chair to sit between his friends and nurses a pint; Granger stirs her tea in an irritating fashion; Weasley moves his mug round the tabletop in small circles, spreading the condensation rings out; and Draco takes in the scene before him. Perfect Potter, the Hero, the Saviour of the Wizarding World and All That Rot. Damned Potter, still sticking his conk where it isn't wanted, even today. Another minute or two and he would have had the better of her! Then there is Granger, with her hair still looking like a flock of birds had nested in it. She was still as irritatingly snotty and as much a know-it-all as ever, and Draco has to give credit to Weasley for being intelligent enough to divorce her before she sucked out his soul just so she could analyse it and compose a sixteen-foot essay on the Properties and Peculiarities of the Human Soul or some equally inane tripe. Lastly, there is Weasley. The bane of his bloody existence. The mud in his eye (undoubtedly Granger had rubbed off on him). The tear in his butterbeer. No, strike the last bit; it makes it seem like Draco might be _sensitive_ , and that cannot be further from the truth. He would rather die by his own hand than be known as someone with feelings or other atrocities.

"Malfoy," Weasley says suddenly, breaking the silence, "aren't you supposed to be finishing up some paperwork? There was at least three hours' worth of work in that pile alone, and I know you'd things in your in tray."

Draco has officially Had Enough of today, and he's had more than enough of Weasley and his Office Head theatrics. "Get fucked, Weasel," Draco says for the second time today, but this time Weasley doesn't look elsewhere. 

Eyes flashing, Weasley stands up so fast that his chair topples over. He's bellowing words that are too vulgar to repeat in polite society and making utterly beastly sounds, and Draco narrowly misses getting a punch to the jaw. The punch likely would have landed had Potter not moved lightning-fast to wrap his arms around Weasley, holding him back.

"Let me go, Harry!" Ron grunts. Granger steps between them, Draco would like to make her eat her hair. 

"Leave off, Potter. Stand aside, Granger. Let Weasley at me; the very least I can do for his troubles is give him a black eye. I seem to remember it improved _your_ appearance once, Granger, and Merlin knows your ex-Weasel needs a tonne of work in that respect."

"LET ME GO," Weasley roars. Perhaps the effect would have been more menacing had a Paramount Post Owl (identifiable by the blue ribbon with the Ministry seal in silver on its leg) not zoomed in and dropped an envelope on Weasley's head. The envelope bounces off harmlessly, landing on the table. Potter loosens his hold and Weasley snatches the post up. Leaning around Granger's big head, Draco notes the post is addressed to both Weasley and himself.

"What is it?" he asks cautiously, his ire not forgotten.

"We've to report to the Ministry straightaway," Weasley says shortly, yanking the cloak off his chair and fastening it about his neck.

Reaching across the table, Draco takes up Weasley's tankard to finish his pint. Slamming it back down, he wipes his mouth, resisting the strong urge to pull a face. The stuff is _vile_. "Go on by yourself, Weaselby. And don't–" He holds up a hand. "–natter on about how I'll be tossed. I couldn't give a shrivelfig about it."

"You need the money," Potter says quietly, and Draco squares his shoulders, blocking out Potter's presence as best he can.

"You'll be binned," Granger adds, and damn her, she's right. So is Potter.

"We're to go to Iran," Weasley says, carrying on as though Draco hadn't just insisted he wasn't going. 

" _Iran_?" It is _hot_ in Iran. Hot and _dry_. His skin would suffer.

"We've a lead - a _good_ one - on another batch of illegally imported flying carpets, and we're to infiltrate and blend in during our investigation." Ron gives him a pointed look. "This is _important_. There could be promotions involved."

Draco hates working for the Ministry, but he hasn't any other options. And a promotion _is_ a promotion, even if it may come at the risk of developing dry skin.

Wait. Weasley said 'blend in', which is really code for 'dress like the natives'.

Tunics are _terribly_ unbecoming.

If possible, Draco's day just got even worse.


	5. Chapter 5

The lift seems to be running slower than usual, though mercifully there aren't many inter-departmental aeroplanes zooming in and out as it stops at each floor this time of night. Most employees went home for the evening long ago, and Draco wishes he were one of them. He spends the majority of the ride to Level Two glaring at Weasley, and Weasley does the same in kind. Draco doesn't know why he's even _in_ the lift; he should have Apparated home instead of following Weasley here.

_"You need the money."_

_"You'll be binned."_

Yes, well. There is that. Stupid Potter. Stupid Granger. Stupid Gryffindor logic.

"Level Two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use..." 

The lift doors open and Draco pushes ahead of Weasley, a small smirk of satisfaction quirking his lips at Weasley's indignant grunt. A colourful insult dies on Draco's tongue when he realises they have company.

"Gentlemen, if I may." A witch somewhere between the age of sixty and death gives them a smile that could curdle milk, while the pudgy, spotty wizard beside her smooths his walrus-like mustache. 

Weasley nods, and the pudgy fellow speaks up. "Right this way. Weasley, yes? And Malfoy. I know Malfoy." 

Of _course_ he knows Malfoy, Draco thinks sourly. The family name had been all over the _Prophet_ during the War and the months that followed it, dragged through the mud, hexed, and stomped upon before being put out to dry with the rest of Perfect Potter's Pet Projects.

Not waiting for a response, the pudgy fellow and the witch turn a corner. Weasley and Draco jog to catch up with them, and Draco strongly considers a hexing or two. The old prune swishes her wand and a pair of heavy oaken doors open. The Auror Headquarters is silent. No memos zooming overhead, no Aurors shouting to one another over cubicle walls. It is almost unnerving, though not so much as his own ruddy office is any time of the day. 

Leading them to the cubicle at the end, the pudgy fellow Summons a few chairs and gestures to them. "Gareth Bytheway; I'm the liaison between the offices in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and the Head of the Department."

"What happened to Abernathy?" Weasley asks, and Draco thinks it's a damned fine question. They'd just _had_ a departmental meeting last week, and Abernathy, the liaison, had run the whole boring bloody thing.

"Mister Abernathy had an unfortunate accident with a kelpie and a carafe while on holiday in Boghead," Bytheway says gravely.

"No one in their right mind holidays in Boghead. It's positively _standard_ and duller than dull," Draco says incredulously. "Serves the git right."

"While I would simply love to learn more about Mister Malfoy's views on proper and improper holiday spots, we do have business to discuss." The old witch clears her throat in way that reminds Draco of Dolores Umbridge, and he has a brief moment of nostalgia, wondering what the hell he'd ever done with his Inquisitorial Squad badge.

Bytheway twirls the ends of his mustache, and the witch gives him a pointed look. "Oh!" Wiping his hands on the front of his dress robes, he smiles a saccharine-sweet smile that Draco wouldn't buy for a Knut. "Forgive me, Madam!" He proceeds to bow with a flourish and Draco exchanges a look with Weasley. Clearly this new liaison is a Huge Git. "Portia Rhys-Cagan is from the International Magical Cooperation Office; she's here to assist with the briefing."

She inclines her head in thanks, her waddle jiggling in a way that makes Draco's stomach churn, and distributes thick folders to everyone.

Flipping his folder open, Draco shudders as his eyes lay on a large moving photograph of man so ugly he ought to be classified XXXX by the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Beside him, Weasley lets out a low whistle. "'s that–?"

"Yes," Bytheway wheezes, patting at his forehead with a kerchief, "it is. Arya Bijan Jalil Majidi."

"Bloody hell," Weasley says, flipping the photograph over. Behind it is a stack of parchment as thick as Draco's thumb detailing Majidi's alleged criminal history and connections to Dark and Dodgy Wizards. "Memo wasn't wrong when it said this was important."

Rhys-Cagan tuts, and Draco is reminded strongly of Granger. "We wouldn't have requested your presence here at this hour otherwise," she sniffs. Extracting her wand from her robes with a flourish, she taps the cubicle wall and immediately a series of moving images flicker upon it, showing various images of Majidi and his goings-on. "We have long been in contact with the Iranian Ministry of Magic regarding the activity of Arya Bijan Jalil Majidi. As your files detail, Iranian officials have long suspected Majidi of, shall we say, _suspect_ dealings but have yet to collect enough evidence to convict him for any wrongdoing. His last known profession was that of a Mediwizardry Supplier, though his vaulted funds far exceed reported earnings. Majidi's whereabouts have been unknown for some six months, though insiders at the Ministry recently came across information which leads them to believe he may be somewhere in Fars province."

Flipping through the files, Draco notes that it seems as though Majidi's passion is the exportation of flying carpets. Draco has thought more than a few times that it was a shame about flying carpets in Britain; they've a certain elegance to them.

"Why've we got this case? Flying carpets haven't been smuggled into Britain in nearly ten months. Weasley and I raided Sucksmith's multi storey; we confiscated 313 carpets and Aurors issued fifteen arrests. Majidi didn't have anything to do with them; we've not had any dealings with him over here since just after the war." 

"I've never heard of him," Draco adds, buffing his nails against a lapel.

"Last case with him was just before you got hired on," Weasley says, then turns his attention back to Bytheway. "So why've we got this case, eh?"

"Yes, well." Bytheway's beady eyes bulge a bit, and he blows his nose, sounding like a dying augurey. "Funny you should mention Sucksmith...."

"What about him?" Weasley asks sharply, and even Draco finds himself leaning forward in anticipation.

"He's the reason Iranian Ministry officials believe Majidi may be in Fars province. They're absolutely swamped and can't afford to spare more than one man on the case. They need a bit of help, and since it stands to reason Majidi would look to export to Britain (you _do_ know how much flying carpets fetch on the black market, I'm sure), you two come into play. "

"Sucksmith is currently working on plea bargain with the Wizengamot, and they have placed him in contact with the Iranian Ministry," Rhys-Cagan explains, snapping her own folder shut. "Your contact in Iran will be an Auror by the name of Mustafa Salimpour. It's in your itinerary." 

"You'll notice," Bytheway chimes in, "you've a seven o'clock meeting with Salimpour at Vakil Bath House."

Draco double-checks his itinerary and scowls. "Seven o'clock in Iran is three-thirty here!"

Rhys-Cagan fixes him with an evil glare, and Draco wouldn't be surprised if she were related to Professor "Steely-Eyed" McGonagall. "Yes, it is. Your Portkey is scheduled for twenty-eight minutes after three o'clock. I suggest you arrive here at three-fifteen."

Fuck, but that's too early. 

"We'll be here." Weasley stands, tucking his folder under his arm. 

Rhys-Cagan nods and, after standing, Bytheway assists her to her feet. "Good evening," they say in unison, then become engrossed in conversation as they head to the exit. Draco waits until the heavy oaken doors open and shut again before yanking the folder from underneath Weaselby's arm and smacking him on the head with it. Childish, yes. But it does make him feel better. 

"Arsehole," Weasley gripes, pulling his folder out of Draco's grasp. Draco watches as his hand clenches into a fist, and he easily sidesteps Weasley's lunge, smirking.

As Weasley grunts and curses and threatens him, Draco shrugs and heads for the doors himself. There is a lot to do to prepare for this unexpected trip, and he needs to get home to do it. "Until tomorrow at the ungodly appointed hour, Weasley."

Damn, if he doesn't wish he didn't need this stupid job. 

***** 

Looking forward to a stiff cuppa (a little bit of tea with his Firewhisky) and a wank before bed, Draco loosens the knot of his tie as he kicks the door to his flat shut behind him. It's been a damned annoying long day, and he's simply glad to be home, even if the place is no larger than a biscuit tin. Banishing his cloak to a wardrobe, he shrugs out of his robes and pads into the kitchen. The fridge is almost as bare as the cupboards; he is hard-pressed to find much beside a bit of chocolate and a jar of mini-gherkins.

Shoving a mini-gherkin or two in his mouth, Draco slams the door shut and reaches for the bottle of Odgen's. Leaning against the counter, he opens the top and raises the bottle to his face. Inhaling the strong, fiery scent, he sighs with something resembling contentment. It is a pity he can't afford proper liquor, but he makes do with Odgen's. For such a cheap bevvy, it's quite good. A diamond in the rough. 

Taking a swig of whisky, he rounds to the cooker, where the kettle is. The moment his eyes lay on the kettle, he groans, deciding he has already had enough of kettles for the day. Draco will forgo the tea for the wank before bed. Figuring he'll pack for Iran in the morning, he shuffles to his bedroom, nipping from the bottle as he goes.

By the time he's reached his room, Draco is feeling warm and toasty and a bit lethargic. The firewhisky burns his throat as it goes down and then settles into the pit of his stomach, sloshing about before settling down, and a pleasant, comfortable feeling washes over him. The notion to wank grows less and less appealing the more and more he nips from the bottle. His eyes grow heavier and heavier until he feels himself drifting away.

*

In his very fantastic dream, a skilled hand traces feather-light patterns on his bare chest, nails fleetingly scraping across the skin every so often. His hips rise, cock straining against his trousers, a plea for the hand to feed into his desires, to touch him. The plea, after a tense moment or two, pays off. The hand skates down his chest to rest over his trapped erection. It rubs slowly, gently and then suddenly tightens just–

Draco's eyes fly open; it isn't a dream.

Fingers still curled round the firewhisky bottle, Draco uses his free hand to feel for his wand, cursing.

"That isn't any way to treat a girl," a soft, breathy voice chides, cool fingers stilling his hand. 

"Keridwen?" he mumbles, squinting in the dim light. 

"You've been avoiding me, Draco," she says in a scolding tone, and he grunts.

Yes, he has been avoiding Keridwen Fenwick. Apparently she's caught on to that. Bugger.

It isn't that she isn't a good shag. In fact, she's quite brilliant at shagging. Keridwen just tends to...smother. Draco isn't very fond of being smothered. He likes his space. He likes his freedom. He likes that he has the choice to shag whomever he pleases whenever he pleases. Keridwen doesn't seem to understand these things; she has been sending him an owl a day (sometimes two or three) since Draco had slept with her one evening nearly four weeks ago. Come to think of it, she hadn't sent him an owl today. He should have _known_ she was going to pull something like this.

"Have I?" he asks slowly, giving her a lazy smile. His head rather hurts from the haze of alcohol, and it's a bit difficult to discern how late it is. "What time is it?" 

"You have." Her hand shifts over him, her fingers squeezing him. "It's rather late, or rather early, depending on how you look at it." She leans in close, so close the ends of her hair brush against his cheeks, and he can smell a faint minty alcohol on her breath. 

"Get lost on your way back from the pub, have you?" The hand on him feels good, and he moans low in his throat, pushing himself into her touch as much he can. Her thighs are on either side of his hips, her arse pinning his legs down.

"Not exactly." Keridwen's small, pink tongue darts out to lick her lips. "I've found you, haven't I?"

Hmm. He's still not got off today. While this _is_ Smothering Keridwen with her hand on his cock, it is also a means to an end. Besides, she clearly wants him, and who is Draco to deny this witch her utmost pleasure? Really, he's fulfilling her wishes and desires, and that ought to speak volumes about his character.

Humming softly, Draco shoves the bottle off the bed and thrusts his hands beneath her robes. He wastes no time in brushing his fingers against her knickers, sliding over them until he finds what he's looking for. Applying pressure to the wet fabric, he grins as she throws her head back and pants. Her fingers move up and down the length of his erection, and he meets her eyes as he presses his thumb against the damp cotton covering her clit.

Keridwen growls, unzipping and unbuttoning his trousers to wrap her hand around him. Knowing that he'll very likely come from her touch alone (and not wanting to do that just yet), he shoves her away. She squeals in protest but shuts up quickly when his hands cup her tits and his lips and teeth nibble along the side of her neck. Pushing her into the mattress, his tongue tastes every bit of her skin he can reach. Keridwen's hands stroke his thighs for a moment, and then she wraps her legs around his waist. Chest aching with need, he yanks her knickers to the side. Biting the sweet spot where neck and shoulder meet, he rocks forward, guiding her along his cock. Her knees dig into his thighs and she rolls her hips, slowly, firmly over his. 

Heat coiling and spiraling madly in his belly, Draco digs his hands into her hips, setting a hard, fast pace. She matches him thrust for thrust, moaning as his teeth tug on a nipple through the thin fabric of her blouse. Her fingers skim up his back, twisting savagely in his hair, and Draco crushes his mouth to hers for a harsh, demanding kiss. Gasping, Keridwen breaks away, biting his jaw, and with a rasping cry Draco's thrusts turn short and hurried. He is so close now, so very close to finally getting what he's needed all day. Her muscles flutter around him, squeezing, and Draco–

"Oi, Malfoy! Where's your ruddy trunk?"

Beneath him, Keridwen moans, "You've company."

"I hear that," Draco snaps, craning his neck, hips still slamming into hers.

"C'mon, we've not got– _Fuck_."

Locking eyes with Weasley over his shoulder, Draco says, "Yes, I'm on that, Weasley," though he pries Keridwen's legs from about his waist. Despite her protests, he pulls out. He wouldn't want to shag in front of Weasley.

_"If I didn't know any better, I'd accuse you of fancying him."_

Damned Pansy and damn the Pansy voice in his head! He doesn't fancy Weasley. That isn't why he's stopping mid-shag. They've important Ministry business to attend to immediately. Portkeys and meetings and all that.

"Sorry," Weasely mutters presumably to Keridwen, though he looks everywhere but at her. "Right. Where's your– you didn't even _pack_? Christ." Crossing to Draco's trunk, Weasley irritably gets out his wand, swishing and flicking up a storm. As various bits of clothing, toiletries, and other assorted items make their way to the trunk, Weasley says again, "Sorry. I just– We've a business trip soon, and–"

"Oh for fuck's sake, Weasley," Draco lashes out, "haven't you ever tossed someone to the wayside before?" Lighting off the bed, he glares down at Keridwen, hiking his trousers up. "Get out! Go on, then!" 

To Draco's extreme annoyance, the bint begins to bloody cry. Unimpressed, he sneers and begins physically dumping robes and trousers into his trunk. All the while Weasley looks from Draco to Keridwen and back again, wearing a rather stupid and idiotic expression complete with gaping mouth.

"You're disgusting," he says, and Draco gives him the two-fingered salute while ushering Keridwen out the door. 

"Take the Floo, and go easy on the powder!" Draco calls warningly down the corridor. He turns round to speak to Weasley again; only he finds it's rather difficult to speak when someone's ramming their fist into your mouth.

Draco's head snaps to the side when Weasley's fist connects with it. When he recovers from the shock of 'Weaselby just sodding _hit_ me,' Draco grabs hold of him by the shoulders and slams Weasley against the wall, pinning him there.

"Don't you ever hit me again," Draco says. Weasley responds by bucking his hips in an attempt to escape, and Draco is painfully reminded that not only are his trousers still undone but his cock is curving out, excruciatingly hard.

"Are you– you–" Weasley's mouth scrunches up, his eyes rounding, and Draco grits his teeth.

"Of course I am, you great freckled arse! You stopped me mid-shag!"

Weasley's eyes close; Draco can see pink blooming underneath the smattering of freckles across his cheeks and nose. "Get off," Weasley chokes, hands pushing against Draco's chest.

"I would've," Draco grinds out, "but you interrupted me. AGAIN, Weasley. You interrupted me AGAIN." Irked, Draco rocks forward, and their hips grind together as Weasley squirms, trying to get away.

_Shit_. 

Draco's cock just bumped against a bulge in Weasley's trousers. A hard bulge.

"Cor," Weasley gasps. "Malfoy, please just–"

"No," Draco says fiercely, "I won't." Anger having built up all day, Draco ignores him, taking up fistfuls of Weasley's dress robes. Yanking the material towards the centre of Weasley's chest, Draco smirks when he winces.

Weasley gasps, then scowls and bucks his hips off the wall roughly. Their pelvises grind together and Draco groans, not giving a shit at how wanton he sounds because Weasley fucking deserves it.

His frame growing tense beneath Draco's, Weasley bangs Draco's inner thigh violently with his knee. "Ruddy– sodding– 'm not a fucking shirt-lifter, you sick sonofa–"

There is the label again, and Draco's vision swims _redhot_. Enraged, he grabs one of Weasley's hands, forcing it to grip his cock. Holding Weasley's hand in a tight circle over his cock, Draco ruts and bucks and rubs himself against the fucking lines of Weasley's palm. His skin burns, and it burns hotter and more unbearable as Weasley gasps and pants and grunts and stutters.

"You're the s-s-sick one," Draco says in a series of ragged gasps, his hand and Weasley's tugging furiously on his cock. There is a slick-wet smacking sound rising above their laboured breathing, pleasure twists viciously within, and he can't help but to cry out. His cock twitches and pulses, slippery come spreading over Weasley's fingers and his own.

It's only when he hears Weasley say "Shit!" faintly that Draco realises what he's done.

"Get off me!" he demands, pushing Weasley roughly against the wall as he stumbles backwards. 

Disgust and repulsion washes over Draco, and neither speak after Weasley performs a Cleaning Charm on the both of them. Draco moves past him, crouching to put the lid on his trunk and fasten it. As he casts a Locking Charm on it, he can feel Weasley's eyes on him. When Draco turns to catch him, Weasley pivots away, crossing to Draco's Floo.

_What a fucking mess this is._

Silently, numbly, Draco follows Weasley through the Floo. 

The Portkey awaits.


	6. Chapter 6

Pointedly Not Looking at Weasley, Draco bats a low-flying inter-department memo away and performs a Shrinking Charm on his trunk. Stuffing the trunk in his pocket, he leans against the back wall of the lift. Weasley stands at the front, pressing his forehead against the wall. Neither says anything, which is fine by Draco. He hasn't a clue what he would say if Weasley spoke to him. 'Sorry I shot all over your robes?' 'Thanks for the pull-off?' ' My, what a firm grip you have?'

"The better to wank you with, my dear," Draco mutters. He doesn't realise he's said anything until Weasley lifts his head to give Draco a sharp look.

"What was that?" he asks loudly.

Shit. Draco really needs to get rid of his inner monologue. Lately it either sounds like Pansy, gets him in trouble, or both. "Nothing," he says with the curl of a lip.

"Right," Weasley says, his tone suggesting Draco ought not have anything to say to him for some time. Draco forces a quick, sarcastic smile. Not speaking to Weasley for a time is fine by him.

The lift doors open, and the annoying hag's voice pipes up again:

"Level Six, Department of Magical Transportation, incorporating the Floo Network Authority, Broom Regulatory Control, Portkey Office and Apparation Test Centre."

In a matter of moments, Weasley and he are standing in the middle of the Portkey Office, which seems even smaller than their cupboard of a space, if that's remotely possible. It's cramped; there is barely enough room for the filing system, the chair, and the desk that are squeezed inside it. A nameplate on the desk reads 'M. F. Luder', the letters charmed to blink blindingly white light. Draco can only stare at it for a moment before he has to look elsewhere, focussing on the walls. Pamphlets and leaflets and folios and posters are stuck to the dingy beige walls, advertising all manner of strange things. A few slanted shelves tacked up behind the desk hold rubbish like tins, old boots, mufflers, mis-matched wellies, and sweet wrappers. While he realises Portkeys are ordinarily made from objects that look like litter to the Muggle eye, he does not begrudge this Luder his position. Draco may loathe working in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts office with Weasley, but at least he isn't surrounded by rubbish.

The chair spins around slowly, revealing a middle-aged man with specs more horrid than Perfect Potter's, a terribly unkempt and straggly beard, and hair the colour of the putrid-smelling paste used to clean brass cauldrons. Draco's eyes flicker to the nameplate, and he wonders if perhaps the M.F. stands for Mangy Fucker.

"I was beginning to think you boys weren't going to show," Luder says around a dry, rasping cough.

"Can you just give us the Portkey and be done with it?" Weasley snaps, and Draco looks up in surprise. While Weasley is a cranky arse and prone to being a git to Draco, he isn't one to lay into a fellow without being instigated. 

Luder blinks, pushing his specs up his nose. Clearly he's taken aback, though Weasley hasn't caught on to it; he's positively glaring at the disheveled wizard. 

Well, if this isn't terribly awkward.

"We're anxious to get a start on our case," Draco interjects, then winces. Damn. Is he covering for Weasley's lack of social skills? "I'll sign for it." Merlin's Beard, he is. He must be coming down with something, or else his brains leaked out his cock all over Weasley's hand back in his flat.

Shuffling around his desk, Luder produces a stack of parchments and indicates to Draco where he ought to sign. When the last signature is put down, the parchment and quill disappear in a puff of orange smoke.

"Just a mo'," Luder says, presenting them with his back. He talks to himself, standing on the tips of his toes as he inspects items on the lopsided shelves. "Ah ha! Here we are." Beaming, he comes out from behind his desk and presses a manky old clay jar in Weasley's hand. 

"Thanks," Weasley mutters, looking anywhere but at Draco.

Feeling a surge of annoyance, Draco nods curtly at Luden and touches the lip of the jar, taking care not to touch Weasley.

"The man on your end will arrange for a Portkey back at the conclusion of your case," Luden says as he takes a large, silver watch out of his robes. The fob is so long it nearly touches the floor, and Draco can see several hands and dials whirling about on the face. "Hands on it, lads! Good, good. And here we go: three, two, one–"

The familiar hook-behind-the-navel sensation sets in and Draco lurches forward, his feet leaving the ground. Weasley is across from him, too-long ginger hair flapping about his face as the wind howls around them. Then it's all over; Draco's feet slam against the ground, Weasley falls into his chest, and the Portkey hits the ground with a loud shattering sound. Serves Luder right, really, for giving them a _clay jar_ for a Portkey. 

As Draco gets his bearings, Weasley pulls back from him as though burnt. "C'mon," he says gruffly, "let's get on with it."

"Yes sir," Draco says, voice dripping with sarcasm as he takes out his wand. Weasley does the same, and they charm their robes to look like the clothing of a common Iranian Muggle: long cotton tunic and matching trouser in natural, boring beige, a hat Draco finds would be more fitting as a pot in one of Sprout's greenhouses, and utterly uninteresting black sandals. After this case is over, he will have to take himself on a shopping spree and spend his meagre savings on a set of designer robes to make amends with himself for the current travesty not really gracing his frame.

"Oy, let's go, then," Weasley says, lifting up a flap on his own tunic to pocket his wand.

Stepping out from behind the large archway that had hidden them, they look around the main room of the [Vakil Bath house](http://pics.livejournal.com/roseline_prune/pic/00001g29). The room itself is massive; [a large dome](http://pics.livejournal.com/roseline_prune/pic/000028qb) (complete with skylight), its intricate carvings leading down into a series of arches across its diameter. Beyond the main archways is a lower ceiling and even more arches. The floor is stone, and their footsteps echo in the cavernous room as they weave in and out and around the tables. The hour is early; the room is nearly vacant save for a few Muggle tourists, servers, and a table or two of elderly Iranians.

"Misters Weasley and Malfoy?" a lilting, heavily-accented voice asks from somewhere behind them.

"Mustafa Salimpour?" Weasley asks as he and Draco turn toward the voice.

"Yes,"answers a short, wiry man in dress very much like their own. After heartily shaking hands with them both, Salimpour gestures to a nearby table. "Please, be seated."

After everyone is tucked in, Salimpour hails a server. He speaks for a moment with the man in Persian, and Draco notes that he looks utterly exhausted. Bytheway had mentioned the Iranian Ministry was swamped; judging from the way Salimpour looks, that much seems true. 

"I ordered you some breakfast," he explains after the server has gone. "I realise the hour is still early in London."

Weasley rubs his stomach, and Draco rolls his eyes. The man is a bottomless pit. "Thanks," Weasley says, looking decidely more personable than he had a few minutes ago. "Though it's still early _here_ as well."

"I do not mind the early hour. Lately I have lost track of time, always working. It is rare to have time for myself." Salimpour digs in a rucksack for a moment before producing two hats that look very much like the ones Weasley and Draco are wearing. "A gift for you."

"While my hat is rather cunning, I do believe one is enough," Draco says wryly, and Weasley shoots him a dirty look.

"I'm sorry," Weasley interrupts, accepting the hats. "He meant to say that one _isn't_ enough. His brains are a bit addled from a rather horrendous case of big-headedness; he tends to–"

Draco kicks Wealsey's shin under the table, hard, as Salimpour raises a hand. "It is all right. He meant no offence." Weasley looks as though he wants to comment to that but, fortunately for his health and well-being, Salimpour continues on. "I think you will be wanting to change hats with me. These–" He nods at the ones sitting in front of Weasley. "–are charmed with something very useful the Japanese Ministry devised."

"What'd that be?" Ron asks curiously.

"Ah, that would be–" Salimpour breaks off when the server returns with a full tray. Thanking the server, Salimpour readies three cups of black teas, placing a mug in front of each of them. "Sugar?"

Draco reaches into a small bowlful of cubed sugar, extracting two. His eyes roam over the tray, but there are no pitchers of milk to be found. "Semi-skimmed?"

Weasley coughs and Salimpour's brows knit together, making him look positively ridiculous. "We do not drink our tea as the British do," he says, and then deftly places a cube of sugar between his teeth. "Observe." His instruction is slightly muffled, but Draco catches the meaning all the same and watches as Salimpour raises the mug to his lips, sipping the tea all the while holding the cubed sugar in place with his teeth. 

Though he is wary of taking his tea this way, Draco is too tired and Portkey-lagged to put up a fuss and demand semi-skimmed _right this instant_ , so he busies himself with the breakfast nosh ( _barbari_ , butter, honey, cheeses, and _halva shekari_ ) while Weasley and Salimpour do the same. As Draco takes his tea, a middle-aged fellow a few tables over begins to puff on a water pipe; the smoke wafts over in the direction of their table, making Draco's eyes water.

Frustrated with both the smoke and the fact that he can't take out his wand to charm the irritant out of his eyes, Draco bypasses the polite conversation Weasley and Salimpour are having to cut right in. "So what's so bloody special about these Japanese hats?" 

"They are from Iran. The charm embedded in the fibres was developed by the Japanese," Salimpour corrects.

Draco waves a hand dismissively. "Right, right. Well, then?"

" _Malfoy_ ," Weasley grounds out, and Draco chooses to be the Better Man (as though there were any question as to which was which in the first place) and ignores Weasley.

"What is so special is that these hats are Interchange Interpreters." Salimpour beams and leans in, whispering excitedly. "These hats are a new device which helps officials - administration, authorities - understand any spoken language."

"Wicked," Weasley breathes, and Draco finds himself intrigued as well.

"As long as you are wearing this hat, you will understand anything you hear; it translates foreign languages into your native tongue." Looking rather smug, he adds, "But that isn't all. It allows _you_ to speak in someone else's native tongue. For instance, if I was not an English speaker, as long as I would wear one of these hats, you would hear English coming from my mouth." 

"That's dead amazing!" 

Draco nods in agreement; it is rather impressive. 

"Yes, it is quite ingenious." After spreading a generous amount of _halva shekari_ on his _barbari_ , Salimpour pulls out two thick folios, pushing one to Weasley and one to Draco. "Everything you will be needing to know about Arya Bijan Jalil Majidi, his contacts, his alleged associates, his properties...it is all here." Digging in his pocket, he produces a few banknotes - _rials_ \- and tosses them on the table as he stands.

"Er. Where are you going?" Weasley asks around a mouthful of cheese.

Touching his hand over his heart, Salimpour bows slightly. "A thousand apologies, gentlemen. I must be on my way; there are seven other cases I am working on; I can be of no further assistance to you unless it is a dire emergency."

"You can't just toss a few folios at us and _leave_ ," Draco interjects quickly, a cube of sugar spitting halfway across the table. "And what if we _do_ have a dire emergency? How are we to–"

"Leave a message at the front desk of [Homa Hotel](http://pics.livejournal.com/roseline_prune/pic/00004b7z) on Meshkinfam Street. That is where you will be staying, courtesy of the Iranian Ministry. Ask for Navid; he will know how to contact me. _Be salâmat_."

And just like that, Draco is alone with Weasley again. 

"This is sodding atrocious," he spits, shoving his cuppa away.

"Shut up," Weasley mutters, rising abruptly and shoving his chair against the table.

Not in the mood for Weasley's shit, Draco grabs one of the Interchange Interpreters. Cramming his old hat in his pocket, he shoves the charmed one on his head. He's had more than enough of Weasley to suit him; he'll find the fucking hotel on his own.

*****

As it turns out, Draco doesn't find the hotel on his own. Weasley insists on travelling with him, and they nearly get killed three times on account of mad Iranian drivers. Traffic is horrendous; Draco is sure the drivers view the road rules as mere guidelines.

Rather glad to still be alive, they finally check into Homa Hotel and make contact with Navid, who assures them he will take care of them and any correspondence they may have with Mustafa Salimpour. After both settle into their rooms and freshen up in the loo, they meet in Weasley's room to review folios and files, as well as to discuss plans for the day. They will split up, Ron canvassing and following up a few tips on one side of the province while Draco does likewise on the other.

"Don't forget," Weasley says, his hand on the doorknob, "[Arg-i Karim khani](http://pics.livejournal.com/roseline_prune/pic/00003dbx) at half-six."

"I won't forget, Weasley." Draco crosses his arms about his chest, giving Weasley an annoyed look. "We can compare notes and assess the situation all you like at half-six. Good hunting and all that." With the flick of a wrist, Draco opens the door and sends Weasley on his merry. 

Splaying out on the bed, Draco idly flicks through the folio Salimpour had given him, as well as the files Rhys-Cagan had foisted upon him yesterday. After all, it wouldn't do well for him to go out unprepared. He must read up on the files about Majidi and commit them to memory before interrogating the public.

"Oh, who am I kidding?" Draco murmurs to himself, pushing the paperwork to the corner of his bed. What he really needs is a solid, uninterrupted lie-in. The past twenty-four hours have been simply _beastly_ and Draco needs his rest. Sod the Majidi fellow; he can wait. 

*****

Shit. 

Draco blinks, staring blearily at the Muggle alarm clock. _5:32_. He didn't intend to sleep that late (well, all right. Perhaps he did.), and now his entire day is shot. There isn't any way he can accomplish visiting and inspecting all of the places on his list for today. Weasley is going to want to kill him.

Hmm, Weasley already _does_. Perhaps no harm has been done. It isn't as though Weasley can honestly expect him to be Productive and a Good Worker, now is it?

His mood considerably lighter, Draco springs to his feet and takes a gander at his list of Places and People to Investigate. He has to start somewhere, so Draco closes his eyes and jabs a finger against the parchment. Lids fluttering open, he spies the name of his destination, as fated by the touch of his finger. [Eram Garden](http://pics.livejournal.com/roseline_prune/pic/00006y1y).

*****

Draco hasn't a clue as to where the Iranian Ministry got their 'leads' about Majidi, but he's quite certain the lead about Eram Garden was utter and complete shit. He had watched the workers for a bit and wandered around, but Draco has yet to see anything remotely suspicious. However pointless this particular leg of his mission may be, he cannot complain too much as the garden is especially enchanting. The air is refreshing, the scent of myriad types of flowers and fragrant myrtles heavy in the air. Tall cypresses line the pathways, and there are plenty of attractive people wandering about. All in all, not a bad way to spend a slice of his day.

Deciding to take in some of the scenery before meeting Weasley, Draco strolls along one of the paths, the tips of his fingers skimming cypress leaves as he walks. It isn't long before he senses he is not alone. There is a tingle between his shoulder blades, and he knows someone is watching him. Immediately his hand moves to the pocket where his wand rests, and he turns around to confront his unwanted company.

"Hello," the man says, smiling a bit too widely for Draco's liking.

If this man wasn't sending off red sparks in Draco's mind, he might have taken a moment to marvel at how brilliant the Interchange Interpreter contraption on his head is. However, the man is setting off more than a few red sparks, and Draco hasn't the time to make pause for fawning over top of the line Ministry apparel at the moment. "Hello," he returns slowly, mouth setting into a thin line.

The man's eyes flicker pointedly from Draco's face to his crotch and back again. "It is a lovely day today, no?"

Oh, this one is about as subtle as a cage full of Cornish Pixies. "It is," Draco says shortly. "How about we skip the formalities and you tell me what you want, eh?"

"I want to see your cock. It must be so white and pretty, and I want to touch it, want to feel it grow hard in my hand–"

Bugger, he _had_ to ask the fellow what he wanted, hadn't he?

Thinking on how it had felt when Weasley's hand had been wrapped round his cock only hours before, Draco has to clamp down and grind his teeth together to fight back a moan.

"–want to watch it turn from white to red to purple, and then I'd take it in my mouth and suck–"

God, this is not what Draco needs to hear right now. He'll be meeting Weasley soon; he _really_ shouldn't have it off with a fellow right about now. Besides–

Something he'd read back in the hotel room about Iranian culture comes swirling to the forefront of his mind: _Under the strictness of the Sharia law, sodomy is punishable by death. This law applies solely to citizens of Iran and those who partake in such acts with Iranian citizens._

Merlin's Beard, he needs to get away from this man.

"Back away," he says in a low voice. "Back away before I summon your Security Please Force and tell them exactly what you are."

The man's eyes narrow and he takes a step closer to Draco. "It would be my word against yours." Wearing a rather smug expression, he reaches toward Draco's groin. "I am the one they will–"

" _Stupefy_!" A bolt of red light hurls forth from his wand, and Draco's feet begin pounding against the stone walkway before the man even hits the ground.

*****

Panting, Draco turns down a narrow alley in an area teeming with shops. He probably could have gotten the fellow to bugger off without resorting to magic, but he hadn't wanted to take any chances. Draco could have been sentenced to _die_ if he'd had a shag with that man, and he would much rather suffer from blue balls than having it off and getting _killed_.

Well, perhaps that is a bit of a lie. Right now he wishes for death instead of this urgent _need_ in his groin.

Pushing his arse back against the alleyway, Draco slips a hand down his chest to take a firm grip on his cock. Angling the heel of his palm and pressing into the constricted crotch of his trousers, Draco moans, arching up against his own hand and _shit_ does it feel good.

Draco knows it will feel even better if he gets his hand on his cock, so he undoes the buttons on the flap of his trousers and slips a hand inside. Reflexively, his hips snap forward, straining against the fluttering touch of his hand. God, he's brilliant at pulling himself off. He really is. This is fucking _fantastic_ , and he doesn't hold back the gasping moan that starts low in his stomach.

Tightening the ring of his fingers, he rotates his wrist from left to right and back again, twisting his grip down over the length of his cock, then stroking upward _hard_. Draco groans, blood and glory and everything in between rushing down to his cock. His free hand clenches into a fist and he stuffs it in his mouth, biting it as his thumb runs over the head, pushing against the slit. Yelping, Draco pistons his hips as he continues to stroke, opening his fist and dropping the hand to cup his balls. The hand cups and squeezes and rolls and pinches and then, with a shuddering gasp, it rubs over the head of his cock while the other strokes up and down the shaft hard. Then everything inside builds and builds until it all crashes together, and his hips are jerking, jerking, jerking forward and he's coming like he's the fucking Hogwarts Express and "Oh fuck, _Ron_ –" 

The orgasm is over quickly, although it had seemed to last for eons, and Draco slumps against the wall. It is then, when his elbows scrape against mud and straw, that he realises what he'd just said.

_Ron_? 

_WEASLEY_?

The Pansy voice pipes up smugly, _"If I didn't know any better, I'd accuse you of fancying him."_

Right then and there, Draco decides that he will owl Pansy a special parcel at the conclusion of his business trip, just a little reminder that he appreciates her friendship. 

Nothing says love and friendship like a parcel full of asps.

*****

By the time Draco arrives at Arg-i Karim khani, it is well past half-six and Ron is nowhere to be found. Though he knows it is worthless, Draco wanders around the citadel-cum-museum on the off chance Ron didn't get entirely pissed and leave when Draco didn't show up right away.

When the hour is nearing nine, Draco decides he has looked for Ron enough and returns to Homa Hotel. The teen at the desk gives him a message from Ron, which reads:

> _YOU'D BEST HAVE A SODDING GOOD REASON FOR MISSING THE MEETING. REPORT TO MY ROOM IMMEDIATELY UPON READING THIS NOTICE._
> 
> _RONALD B WEASLEY  
>  HEAD OF MISUSE OF MUGGLE ARTEFACTS OFFICE_

As if Draco doesn't _know_ Weasley's the head of his stupid office. Crumbling the notice in his fist, Draco tosses it in a rubbish bin as he passes it. Seething, he jogs up to the floor they're staying on; Draco would like to get the confrontation over with so he can take a shower and get some sleep.

The door to Ron's room is ajar, and Draco places his palm against the solid wood, pushing against it slightly.

"–mione, 'm sorry, but I can't– obviously I'm in Iran, yeah? So I can't sign the papers here unless you– Yeah, that'll work. The Department of Wizarding Affairs can forward it here, and I'll send it ba– No, don't say that, all right? Look, I _want_ you to have the money for your house-el– Because I know it's important to you, okay? That's why I agreed to it in the first– Yeah, all right, then. Tell Harry hullo, and we'll all take tea when I get back. Cheers."

Draco had figured Ron was on the Topside Talking Tinder, and when he hears the tell-tale three raps of the wand to end the Chat, he opens the door and steps inside Weasley's room.

"Well it's about sodding time!" Ron bellows the instant his eyes lay on Draco.

Shutting the door behind him, Draco arches a brow and looks on him. His skin is almost as red as his hair, and he's working himself into a right fit. Ron hasn't got a shirt on, and Draco can watch as colour blooms across the expanse of his skin. It's almost amusing, really.

"Hullo to you too, Weasley," Draco says calmly. Funny, he's started to think of Weasley as _Ron_ since that bit of madness in the alley, yet he cannot bring himself to actually _say_ Ron. At least part of him still has sense and sensibility.

"What the ruddy hell are you trying to DO, Malfoy?" Ron demands, pushing up out of his chair and crossing to Draco. Before Draco can get even a single word out in response, Ron barrels ahead, poking his finger in Draco's chest. "I'll tell you what you're doing! You're doing nothing but sabotaging this assignment and making me look like a great arse!"

Slapping Ron's finger away, Draco says in a deadly quiet voice, "Don't do that again."

"Oh ho, why not?" Ron asks hotly, and Draco would bet ten Galleons the flush on his skin got even redder.

Tilting his head to one side, Draco studies him, taking in the way Ron's eyes flash angrily, the way his bare chest heaves up and down with indignation, the way he's clenching and unclenching his hands into fist with frustration. It is then that Draco knows he has to do _something_ to get Ron to calm down. He simply isn't in the mood to deal with this hot-headed shit, and so he has to put an end to it. Looking at Ron, all shirtless and flushed and fit, Draco has a rather good idea as to how he can put an end to this temper tantrum, and put an end to it quickly.

The fastest way Draco knows how to resolve any conflict is much more enjoyable than any daft Wizard Relations and Conflict Mediation Seminar the Department of Wizarding Affairs would offer, and so he takes immediate action to do things his way. Really, he's doing this for Ron's own good. No matter if he's still a bit randy from pulling himself off earlier. No matter at all.

Dropping to his haunches to rest on his heels, Draco hauls Ron's trousers down about his ankles and shoves him back against the bed. Ron's arms pinwheel wildly, his knees hit the foot of the mattress, and his arse flops on the bed. Nudging Ron's knees apart, Draco situates himself in between them and raises a hand to Ron's cock, following the lines of the shaft with first the pad of his thumb and then the heel of his palm. He can feel Ron's cock jerk against his hand, and Draco smiles. The smile widens when Ron sputters, "D-don't– get off– oh _fuck_ –"

"Oh, I'll get you off, Weasley," Draco promises, not caring a whit that he sounds a bit breathless. Licking his lips, he bends and mouths the head, just enough to wrap his lips around it, but not quite enough to take it in his mouth. Humming experimentally, Ron's entire frame jolts beneath him, and Draco opens his jaw, taking Ron fully into his mouth.

Ron's hands card through his hair, taking up great handfuls of it to twist violently. "Malfoy– _'m not a–_ "

Just then Draco licks at the spot on the underside of the head that always drives _him_ mad, and Ron's protests taper off to a low keening sort of groan. The groan turns into a whine and Ron pushes upward. Draco digs fingers into his hips and pushes him back against the bed, flicking his tongue slowly over the head and then switching to suction up and down the length of Ron's shaft, teeth grazing the vein along the underside. As Ron continues to whimper and buck and pull at his hair, Draco fastens his hand around the base of Ron's cock, squeezing it until the bucking slows down.

"Good boy," Draco murmurs, moving his hand in slow, even strokes.

"'m not– I– fucking _hell_ I need to–"

"Shut up, Weasley." Hissing softly, Draco sucks Ron into his mouth until his lips meet his hand, and Ron screams. Ron screams, and Draco slides his free hand down to brush over his balls before pressing just behind them. Ron's scream stutters and then dies out, and his mouth gapes open soundlessly. Then Draco sucks so hard his cheeks cave in and he twists his fingers just _so_ against the spot behind Ron's balls, and Ron's hips piston with abandon. He comes fast and hard and thick and hot down Draco's throat, and Draco drinks it all down.

When Ron stops shaking and Draco can feel him getting a bit boneless beneath his hands, he pulls away, grey eyes meeting blue. 

"All right, Weasley?" Draco asks, wiping delicately at the corner of his mouth.

Ron gives him a look that could melt glass and grabs the waistband of his trousers. Standing up, he yanks them over his hips and pushes roughly past Draco.

Frowning, Draco gets to his feet and follows Ron, but he's a moment too late. The door to the loo slams right in front of Draco's face. His fingers curl round the doorknob and he pulls it; locked. Gripping hard, he twists it in the other direction, but it isn't any use.

"Weasley." He raps his knuckles on the door, but there is no response.

This is the thanks he gets for a fucking phenomenal blow? For making Ron forget he'd been cross?

"Well, fuck you too, then, Weasel!" Draco sneers, kicking the door for good measure.

"I'm not a fucking poof, so no thanks," comes the reply, and Draco stares at the door in disbelief.

"I'm thinking you are, Weasley," he says, and then he laughs.


	7. Chapter 7

When it becomes apparent to Draco that Ron is much more intent on being a stubborn arse and proving how ace his Locking Charms are rather than being professional and comparing notes about their day working on the case, he goes to his room in lieu of Ron's.

Exhausted still from yesterday's adventures in Tarring Neville as well as from Portkey travel and what had just transpired next door, Draco crawls into bed, slipping between the cool sheets. As he lays there, what little energy he has left begins to dissipate. Lids grow heavy and slowly blink shut; blackness washes over his vision and his breathing begins to shallow. His body grows languid, and he begins to drift away.

Just as sleep starts to settle in, a random image flashes in his head. An image of Ron's cock springing free from the confines of his trousers.

Argh. 

Pounding his fist against the pillow, Draco rolls onto his side, screwing his eyes shut. He wants nothing more than sleep, glorious sleep, and how can he fall asleep when–

And there it is again! Another flash of Ron's cock, and he groans, rolling the opposite direction. 

Try as he might, and no matter which position he curls up in or how hard he presses his pillow over his head, Draco cannot get rid of the image of Ron's cock from his mind, nor can he stop himself from remembering the feel of Ron's skin under the slide of his tongue.

He must be going mental. This is the only feasible explanation he can devise. Why else would he keep thinking about Ron Weasley's cock? Draco wouldn't be thinking and thinking and thinking and quite possibly obsessing over it because he _fancies_ Ron. Ron with his stupid freckles and his stupid garish hair and his stupid maroon jumpers and his stupid foul, wicked mouth and his stupid eyes that are so big and blue Draco could drown in them and his stupid, fit arse and–

_Damn_.

Maybe he _does_ fancy Ron.

Sitting up with a jolt, he mutters, "Asps, Pansy. _Asps,_ " and contemplates Obliviating himself.

*****

Some time later, Draco wakes from a fitful slumber. A quick hop in the shower does little to rouse him; he has to practically prop his eyelids open to see his way out of the loo, and he keeps yawning, getting on his own nerves. Wrapping a towel tightly around his waist, he pads out to the wardrobe. Pulling another boring tunic-and-trouser set out, he tosses it on the bed. As he shuts the door to the wardrobe, something catches the corner of his eye. On the side table is a scrap of parchment. Curious, Draco takes it up in his hands and scans it. Ron's familiar, messy scrawl informs Draco that he's already left for the day to check out a few more places on his list and requests they meet at Arg-i Karim khani at half-six to discuss their respective findings for the day. The words ' _AND BE PROMPT_ ' are underlined and use more ink than the rest of the note combined, and Draco grunts, folding the parchment up and leaving it on the table.

Brilliant. Draco supposes this means he must actually _do_ work-type activities. He has worked with Ron long enough to know that he can only fuck off for so long before Weasley goes off his gourd. Since Draco isn't in the mood to deal with an off-his-gourd Weasley, he'll put in a few hours of actual work today. It annoys him to do it, but he knows he would only be more annoyed with a Weasley tirade, so he'll suck it up for a bit.

Upon getting dressed, Draco selects which places on his list to investigate for the day . The entire list seems more like a tourist itinerary than anything else, and he decides to get what will likely be the most vexing ordeal over with first. 

Not only is Persepolis a complete and utter nightmare on account of all the Muggle tourists milling about, but also from the sheer fact that it is located some 70 kilometres northeast of Shiraz. This is terribly inconvenient, and it means Draco must endure yet another taste of mad native driving, as the railway system does not provide a direct route there. 

The place of interest in Persepolis, according to Iranian Ministry sources, is the [Apadana](http://pics.livejournal.com/roseline_prune/pic/00008rt8), the audience hall that had been the biggest building in the ancient city. Draco can't imagine _why_ , though he does put minimal effort into exploring the area, casually running his fingers over the reliefs on the gigantic north and east [stairways](http://pics.livejournal.com/roseline_prune/pic/00009qh5) as he looks nonchalantly around.

Just beyond the hall, Draco notices a few locals have set up blankets, on which they peddle their wares. Under the pretense of being interested in rare and strange collectibles, Draco makes his way from vendor to vendor, though none turn out to be very helpful. Once he is satisfied that none of them know anything about 'curious' carpets or a man named Arya Bijan Jalil Majidi, Draco braves public transportation and mad cab drivers to return to Shiraz.

The return trip takes forever, and Draco stops for a quick lunch (rice, fish, and tea sans semi-skimmed, again – truly, how he must suffer for the Ministry of Magic, and it's all Potter's fault) before resuming his scouting.

[Shah Cheragh](http://pics.livejournal.com/roseline_prune/pic/0000bpy3/t7d5d) yields nothing of interest regarding the case, and he wastes no time in trekking to [Afif-abad Garden](http://pics.livejournal.com/roseline_prune/pic/0000dw6d/t7d5b). While the royal mansion and the Persian garden on the grounds are intriguing, Draco is not here as a tourist, and so he immediately heads to the historical weapons museum in the lower floor of the main building. He spends a good amount of time interrogating the weapons curator, but the man offers him no information of importance, so Draco leaves for the next destination on his list.

Finding someone at [Nasir ol-Mulk Mosque](http://pics.livejournal.com/roseline_prune/pic/0000afbg/s320x320) to speak with proves to be difficult, and Draco is very close to throttling a worshiper out of frustration when a small man missing a few teeth taps him on the shoulder and offers assistance. Draco only has to wait a few moments for the man to fetch a list of suppliers of the carpets the Mosque keeps on hand for worshipers in need. Thanking him, Draco gives the man's hand a hearty shake and then turns to the list of suppliers. None of the names or companies match those Draco knows to belong to or associated with Majidi, so he bids the man farewell. 

Near the mosque is the [Vakil Bazar](http://pics.livejournal.com/roseline_prune/pic/0000cza7/s320x320), another place of interest in the investigation. A vendor by the name of Rasheed Vafa'i is the target at the mosque, and Draco quickly becomes part of the throng wandering through the bazar, intent on finding Vafa'i. At the very least, the man needs to be observed. At the most, Draco may need to question him if there is suspicious activity in his alcove. 

The bazar is made up of arched alcoves with wide platforms, and overhead the arches sustain the roof. Just ahead, Draco can see where the east and west bazars diverge from the thick of things; there is a high domed crossing with intricate carvings. Casually moving from alcove to alcove, where small shops are set up, Draco makes note of what each vendor is selling - clay pots, clothing, shoes, spices, jewelry, colourful artwork, sacks of grain, coffers, fabrics, animals, and more. Most of the vendors do not have their names or shops displayed prominently, and so, after browsing the main bazar, Draco becomes impatient and asks a woman selling bolts of colourful fabric where he can find Vafa'i. She directs him to the east bazar, and before long Draco is standing behind an archway opposite of the Vafa'i's alcove, watching shoppers come and go.

Vafa'i, an older fellow with greying hair and round, wire-rim glasses, runs his shop with the help of a fit young man a bit younger than Draco, and Draco suddenly doesn't mind putting in a proper day's work. He has a nice view and he's out of the sun and in the cool shade. It could be worse; Draco could be in a small, hot building chasing after airborne waffle irons and rogue flame-spewing kettles.

Observation, Draco decides, will be the best way to go about things for a time. He will keep a close eye on the man and his helper, and if the opportunity presents itself, he will pretend to be a shopper and ask them a few questions to feel them out. 

An opportunity presents itself around tea time, but it is not the one Draco had suspected. Vafa'i hands his assistant a leather pouch and some sort of list. The fellow bows to Vafa'i, hand on his heart, and walks away from the alcove. 

_This could get interesting._

Pushing himself off the archway that had kept him partially hidden, Draco follows him through the bazar and out to the street. The fellow makes a few stops here and there, presumably paying on Rasheed Vafa'i's bills, placing orders, those sorts of things. The afternoon quickly grows tedious, and Draco eventually begins to ponder whether he ought to return to the bazar to keep an eye on the man himself, but then something catches his eye. The fellow stops in front of a vendor stand at an outside market, a dilapidated stand that is both busy _and_ selling oriental carpets. The carpets alone attract his attention , and he mingles with a group of tourists, pressing closer to the stand. The vendor reaches under a counter, passing a long, leather-bound book to the hands of Vaka'i's fellow. Draco watches as he looks discreetly around before tucking the book up under his tunic.

With a short bow, the fellow leaves the vendor stand, and Draco stays on his trail. The fellow weaves in and out of streets and alleyways. The longer he walks, the more Draco wonders if the fellow might be on to him and is trying to get him lost.

The buildings are less commercial now and more residential. Darting down a narrow passageway between two houses, the fellow turns left and ducks into a nondescript house, one that looks nearly identical to every other one on the row. Fishing an Extendable Ear from a pocket, Draco tosses one fleshy end toward the door. Placing the other in his ear, he crouches below a window, his body hidden from passers-by courtesy of a short, fat cypress tree.

Pressing closer to the wall, he adjusts the Extendable Ear and waits.

"Hello?" This is followed by muffled noises, as though the fellow is walking around the house. "Hello?"

A second voice says, "In here," and Draco's pulse quickens. It could be nothing, or it could be something very, very important.

More muffled noises, and then, "Ah, there you are, Arya Bij–"

"Do not speak my name, boy," the second voice interjects, and Draco would stand up and crow if it wouldn't give him away. 

"My apologies, sir. I have something for you from Habib Qashqi by way of Rasheed Vafa'i."

"Yes, you do." There is a brief pause, during which Draco figures the fellow is handing over the ledger. "That will be all."

Footsteps sound and Draco scrambles to tug the Extendable Ear away from the door. Shoving it hastily in a pocket, he stands up and feigns walking up to the door of a house a few buildings down, waiting until the fellow has disappeared before going back to the house. Cautiously, Draco enters it, wand held out in front as he stands in the doorway. Performing a preliminary sweep for Dark Magic and assorted jinxes with his wand, he waits to move until his wand shoots white sparks, signaling the house is clear. He is just about to enter the front room when he remembers the blasted Ministry protocol for raids: a witch or wizard shall not perform a raid alone unless circumstances are extreme and urgent. _Like your partner being an incompetent arse and not showing up, for example._

Fucking Ministry protocol.

Mouth setting into a thin line, Draco backs out of the house and heads to Arg-i Karim khani. As soon as he gets there (a death-defying cab ride and a sprint later), Draco stops the first person he sees to ask for the time.

Squinting at his wristband, the man says, "Six-forty-three."

Draco's jaw drops. "Are you _sure_?"

"Yes, it says so right here. See?" The man shows Draco his wrist, and Draco groans. 

Terrific. He's late, and Weasley clearly isn't here. "Thanks," Draco says, not sounding at all appreciative as he runs to hail another cab.

When Draco arrives at Homa Hotel, the clock in the lobby reads _6:59_ ; he can practically feel Ron's ire from upstairs. 

"Sir! Sir, you have a message from a Mister Weas–"

"Leave it, Navid," Draco calls to the man behind the desk, dashing to the lift. "Come on, come _on_ ," he grumbles, punching the numbers harder than necessary.

As soon as the lift grates open, Draco shoots out like a rogue Firebolt. Weasley's door isn't locked, and Draco lets himself in.

"Weasley," he says, then pauses to suck in a great big breath.

Stepping out of the loo, Ron looks up from fastening the button on his zip. His eyes meet Draco's and immediately his expression grows stormy. 

"Fuck off, Malfoy."

Draco holds up a hand. "Excuse me?"

"You'll be taking a Portkey back to London tomorrow, Malfoy. The Department of Wizarding Affairs will be receiving post from me tomorrow. I've recommended they terminate you. All I'm waiting on is for the post owl to show up, and it's done."

Draco gapes at him for a moment, and then crosses swiftly to him. His eyes narrow. "You're joking."

"I'm not," Ron says flatly. "You're shite at your job and I'm tired of picking up the pieces."

"I told you, I can do my job and do it right, Weasley. I simply choose _not_ to do so." 

"That's a big fat lie, Malfoy. You're just shite, and you can't–"

"If I'm so shite, why did I find out where Arya Bijan Jalil Majidi is–"

"I don't," Ron says scathingly, "want to hear it. You'll just make excuses like always and I'm fucking tired of your wheedling and your manipulating and your lazy-arsed–"

Draco cannot take this anymore. Ron needs to shut up and he needs to shut up _now_ before Draco takes to hexing his bollocks off. Propelling himself forward, Draco crushes Ron against the loo door, attacking Ron's mouth with his own. Applying pressure, he forces Ron to open his mouth and slips his tongue inside the warm cavern, sliding urgently against his. For all the flailing Ron did when Draco slammed him against the door, he gives up the fight rather quickly, his hands grabbing onto Draco's face, kissing back with an intensity that makes a fire light in Draco's groin.

Ron must have felt it, because he squirms beneath Draco for just a second before freezing, pulling back so quickly that his head bounces with a _THUMP_ off the door. "'m not a poof," he rasps, and Draco snakes a hand down between them to grab at his crotch. 

"You are. If you weren't, you would've had me reassigned two days ago."

For a long moment there is absolute and utter silence as Ron lets this sink in, and then his head falls forward, face pressing against the side of Draco's neck. "Fuck," he mumbles. "She was right. She was–"

If he weren't so hard and didn't want to touch Ron so badly, he would ask who 'she' is and what she'd been right about (though he did figure the 'she' had to be about Granger), but he doesn't.

"It's all right, Weasley." Narrowing his eyes, Draco gives him a squeeze. "I won't hold it against you." Grinding his hip long and hard against Ron's, he adds, "Unless you ask nicely."

"Oh fuuuuu–hold it, hold _it_ ," Ron whimpers suddenly, sounding relieved and turned on all at once, and Draco is only too pleased to oblige, sliding a leg over Ron's. Up and in, Draco arches slowly against him. Ron groans, and Draco's breath quickens as his lips and teeth and tongue forge a path from the hollow of Ron's throat to the sweet spot just below his ear and down to his mouth again. Ron moans into Draco's mouth, his hands skittering down over Draco's belly and up under his tunic.

"That's it," Draco breathes hotly against his ear. "Touch me there. Yes. _Fuck_."

Ron's hand thrusts into Draco's cotton trousers, fingers carding through the course hair to move lower still, and Draco thinks it might not be possible to get harder than he is right now. His cock positively _aches_ and Ron is so fucking slow to move that it's killing him–

" _Weasley_."

"Yeah." 

Fucking _shit_.

Ron's thumb flicks over the head of his cock, then lightly circles it and presses against the slit, making Draco's lungs rattle and a low moan surfaces from practically his toes.

"That's good," Draco mumbles, then bumps Ron's hand away, parting Ron's thighs with a nudge of his knee. "Let me in."

Settling back against the wall, Ron stares at Draco, and for one, brief moment, they smile. The moment is a fleeting one, and as soon as it is long gone, Draco attacks Ron's trousers, hauling them down, shoving his pants down a bit as well. He could see the tip of Ron's cock, the shining head, peeking up against the elastic waistband, and his brain nearly short circuits. "Shit, Weasley," he gasps, pistoning his hips against Ron's. "You're– you're–"

"Ahhh." Weasley grabs a handful of his hair and wrenches Draco against him. Their mouths meet fiercely, messily,   
demandingly as their hips roll and their cocks bump one another.

"Can't– have to– nnnnnngggggghhhh–" 

Draco isn't sure who was making all the noise, but he doesn't care. Grunting, he pushes Ron's pants out of his way and takes hold of both their cocks in his hand. His hand isn't slick enough, but he doesn't give a toss. His cock is swelling, Ron's feels so fucking good next to his, and he has to– _yesssssss_. Ron's hand joins his, and together they develop a jerky sort of rhythm, moving up and down and squeezing together. A tight, _whitehot_ sensation begins to pool in his groin, and he loves every damned minute of this.

"M-Malfoy–" Weasley gasps, and Draco pulls back, teeth rattling. 

"Weasley," he chokes, "you have to–"

"Shut. Up." 

In an instant, they're a tangle of limbs on the bed, the mattress squeaking under them as Ron arches up against Draco.

"I have to fuck you now," Draco whispers, and Ron responds by burying his tongue in his mouth. Draco can feel Ron's tongue glide over the strong ridges of his teeth, sliding against the soft underside of his lip, pushing back against his cheek and then in to tangle with Draco's tongue.

Sliding a hand up under Ron's arse, Draco sucks his tongue into his mouth and then asks, "Is that a yes?"

"Yes, Merlin, Godric, Salazar, fucking Celestina Warbeck that's a fucking yes," Ron gasps, and Draco grins wickedly, his cock twitching with anticipation.

"Then in the name of Merlin, Godric, Salazar, and fucking Celestina Warbeck, I'll fuck you."

Not bothering to ask Ron if he has any lube, Draco licks the palm of one hand and spits on it. He has to think disgusting thoughts - McGongall naked, Slughorn in lace knickers, Snape in a frock - to stop himself from coming as he spreads the saliva over his cock. He can feel the weight of Ron's stare on him, and it's all he can do not to just shove himself inside straightaway.

"Bring your knees up to your chest and hold them," he instructs, and then slowly pushes one finger, then two, and finally three. Ron clenches his arse around the intrusion, but soon relaxes and lets out a moan. He feels soft and hot and velvety against Draco's fingers, and Draco moans a little himself as he strokes his fingers inside the tight channel.

"C' _mon_ ," Ron grunts, and Draco, desperately needing release, pulls his fingers out. Positioning himself at Ron's entrance, he digs his fingers into Ron's hip, pulling him closer, then holding his cheeks open. Yes, he sodding _does_ fancy Weasley, and he'll fuck him and not feel remotely guilty about it. Sucking in a breath, Draco pushes forward. He slips, misses, and curses, then tries again. He bites down on his lip hard as he breaches Ron, his cock enveloped by constricting heat. Ron arches against him and Draco grunts, rolling his hips and fucking him as fast and as deep as he can.

His cock throbbing, that _whitehot_ sensation in his groin grows more and more intense. The pressure becomes unbearable, and he hears a cry – probably his own, but he can't be certain – as his cock begins to spurt and he shatters against Ron's body.

Draco slumps against Weasley for a long moment before gathering enough energy to pull his softening cock out. Flopping onto his back beside Weasley, he makes a satisfied, contented sound before flinging an arm over his face.

"Malfoy?"

"I was just balls-deep in your arse, Ron," Draco says slowly. "I think we can use first names now." _Ron_. It feels rather odd to actually be saying it now, but strangely satisfying, in a way not unlike the shag itself.

"Draco."

"Yeah?" Draco lolls his head toward Ron's, staring over at his flushed skin shining with a thin sheen of sweat.

"This doesn't mean I'm not sending my post off when the owl arrives."

Draco snorts and wraps a hand around Ron's limp cock. "Will you listen to what I have to say now, or do I have to extract a limb?" Ron's cock twitches beneath his fingers, and Draco smirks. "I'll take that as 'do tell, Draco'."

Ron exhales slowly, nodding.

Giving Ron the shortened version of events, Draco explains how he followed Vafa'i's fellow to a house where he's fairly certain Majidi is either living or using as a headquarters of some sort. "...have to contact that pillock Salimpour, of course, but first thing tomorrow we can head out there and–"

"Draco." 

A small shiver of a thrill races up and down Draco's spine hearing Ron say his name. "Yeah?"

"Sorry for being a complete bastard a bit ago. I should've– I reckon you chose to do your job today, and I just want to say 'good show'."

Draco considers this for a moment, and then shrugs. "It's quite all right. I'm fully aware how horrid I am, and I like it this way." Rolling to his side, he props himself on one elbow and looks down at Ron. "In fact, you're pretty fucking horrid yourself, so we're even." A beat, and then a slow, wicked smirk curves his mouth. "Well, except for the small matter of you owing me a blow and a shag."

**THE END.**

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter Six includes a nod to _The X-Files_ and _Firefly_. XF is property of Chris Carter and 1013 Productions, while FF is property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy.


End file.
